


Trouble

by MelitaMita



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: AU, F/M, OOC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7400059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelitaMita/pseuds/MelitaMita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” <br/>― Friedrich Nietzsche</p><p>In a world of man-made monsters, is it impossible to believe that the greatest one had indeed been a man? And would that man be nothing but? A man who can think and breathe and love? The monster becomes one because the soul corrodes, but the soul would remain but a soul. And she would be part of it. Then, is it impossible to believe that this monster could be saved and returned to her who has kept a part of it within her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the seventh chapter of a pre-started series up on Fanfiction.Net that could be read on it's own or if you'd like a tad bit more backstory, you can read the first six chapters (which kinda suck) here --> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9658634/1/Trouble
> 
> I'm still trying to work out some formatting and creative issues so bear with me. Thanks for clicking it :)

A dark ghost slips through the concrete halls. A stride too elegant to be of this Earth; steps made light and with a certain vindication saved for those up to no good and know it. Walking with secretive intentions, the fluorescent lights above him each went out in a flicker, one after the other as he turns a corner.  
Lab alley was a nickname, he knew. Christianed from the way the hall seemed to continue forever with labs on each side, separated by thick stone walls with reinforced glass windows and doors. He stood at the mouth of it, gazing into that seemingly never ending corridor that was beginning to dim and darken as the lights gave out there. Taking a breath, he straightened his stolen lab coat, complete with a fabricated identification card allowing superior access to all facilities at this location. He began walking down the hall, head up, no hesitation. Confidence was a tool; he'd have to use it to pull this off, though he himself wasn't very sure of the success he'd have with this plan. 

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

Playing the game was similar to drowning; it can't be explained. Women have the appeal, the ability, to have a man trailing with a simple word, gesture, look. As if she were dragging him behind her with an invisible rope made of the finest silk, held with her eyes, wound tight around the neck. Gladly, they'd choke themselves searching, yearning for the woman who caught them. The eyes, beautiful and shining under the lights. The hair, falling so elegantly and if lucky, brushing against his skin. The smile, the destruction.  
He never played the game. Not when it was usually in his favor. Not when it was so effortless to have any woman he wanted under his spell. Never one for the chase himself, he merely walked while they followed. A bit lazy in that aspect. Why had it changed so suddenly with her? Her and those baby blues. Her and her scarlet hair. Her touch left on his skin, not burning but tingling. Leaving him wanting in that almost intoxicated way but he wasn't desperate enough to trail her like a starving dog after a bone. At least, not yet. 

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

This was his first assignment. It was a gamble on part of his boss, a Mr. No-Name, because of how new, young, and fresh he was compared to his other agents. But it was his time, his turn, and Mr. No-Name knew, so now he had to prove it. Like a child on his first day at the big school, he was terrified. Terrified of screwing it all up, of getting caught, of disappointing but he hid that well beneath a mask fashioned from years of training.  
He walks in that way- head up, chest out- taught to him. Not sauntering, but almost, down the hall, glancing into each individual lab as he passed to see busy scientists and researchers. Running a nervous hand through his stringy brown hair to ease the slight shakiness that had taken hold of it, he repeated the lab number in his head.  
137\. 137. 137...

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

There was something in her touch, he had to admit to himself. Slender fingers running casually down his arm as they walked, side by side, through a dim restaurant. He had his hand on the small of her back, the feel of the smooth material of her dress on his palm, as they left their table.  
A part of him wasn't ready to leave. Sitting there, across from her, watching her in brief glances as she ate. He would never have thought that anyone could look as great as she did doing something as mundane as this. Her fingers wrapped justly around the silver knife and fork, cutting up the steak she ordered. Steak and not salad. He had ordered the same. Hers well done and his medium rare.  
He enjoyed when she talked. Comfortable little words asking him what he did for fun, what he liked and disliked, curious as to what made him, well, him. She in turn, liked the way he answered with a reserved confidence. Liked how he would turn the conversation on her with questions about her life she had to pause for a second to think about, patience in his eyes that she swore were every color south of red, seemingly changing under the different light.  
He was slowly falling for her laugh that escaped sometimes by accident from her lips. For the way she would push her auburn hair behind her ear without thinking. For the way she was starting to look at him.

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

He was set up. Mr. No-Name set him up. There was no trust, no gamble, no chance for him to prove his worth. All that hope he had- false. All the nervousness and the pride that was building up inside him prematurely at the thought of passing his first assignment with flying colors- gone. Mr. No-Name wasn't counting solely on him, giving him purpose. It was all one big set up because he was going to fail.  
Why take the chance?  
Damien Poole- alias. Fucking veteran in the field. Cocky son of a bitch with a handful of successful assignments under his belt. Actual goddamn lap dog of the company. Standing there with the crate on the table in front of him in room 137, slipping a vial he knew had a fake viral strand into the single empty space within it. A spiral vial of green liquid, the real virus, resting carefully in his left hand as he closed the crate. A smug smile on his hawk face.  
"Way to go, Sport." He said. "You didn't fuck up."  
No. He didn't get a chance to. Not a chance at all.

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

The air outside the restaurant was just right, the occasional soft breeze making it all the more so. It passed through his hair and into the open lapels of his blazer, even slipping past the two undone top buttons of his shirt to his chest. It made him calm, kept his mind straight and it allowed him to focus on something that wasn't her for just a brief moment, not lasting.  
She leaned into him as they walked down the sidewalk, whispering something in his ear. What now?  
"The night is yours." He answered, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, wanting to keep her close. "All yours."  
The bar on the corner seemed to glow under the streetlights. Swanney's looked holy. It wasn't his idea of a "date". But then again, he was never a man that dated and he found that he liked how she hinted that she wasn't a woman that did either. 

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

He had to wait to sulk. Push that anger deep down, put it on hold because they were still in the depths of Hell. He hated that about himself. Too young, too eager, too emotional. Perhaps they were right. Maybe he wasn't cut out for this world.  
"Straight face, boy." Damien was.  
He choked back that part of himself, cleared the knot in his throat. "You know the way out?"  
"Back the way we came." Damien kept looking around the room, as if trying to remember every inch of it. Every microscope, petri dish, and test tube. After a moment, he seemed satisfied. Picking up the crate, he walked over to a medical fridge pushed back against the far wall with a clear glass door and he could see other crates stacked on it's shelves inside. He opened it and placed the crate in it's spot, and closed the door quickly.  
He was glancing out through the windows into the hall when Damien patted his shoulder. "Let's get a move on. Don't want to get caught now."  
"We won't."  
"It's your ass if we do." 

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

It was her idea but he secretly loved it. Of course, it took her some time to convince him to try. Using that "'fraid I'll kick your ass?" tactic many people love using when trying to coerce someone to do something. She was good. She had him slipping his blazer off, rolling up his sleeves, and grabbing a cue in a matter of seconds. He could blame it on the fact that he was born with a naturally competitive nature.  
The game, not that he particularly cared to admit, was definitely hers. In total, he probably potted a ball about four times, two of which were not even his, compared to the relatively flawless way she cleaned up the table. The clack of the white against whatever other color- she was solids- was heard over the music flowing from hidden speakers. The noise would ring in his ears as she smirked with such pride.  
The bar was almost full, lively but not rowdy. Mostly men with the occasional woman (nine in total, including her) putting them in their places. Sometimes, when she would lean over the table to get at eye level when a difficult shot was presented, a guy or two, drunk off their asses, would take advantage of the view she was giving. He wasn't sure if she knew, but he could probably guess she did but didn't care. He did though, and would grip the cue knuckle white and glare at them until they became so uncomfortable they turned around or moved to a different part of the bar.  
But when she was setting up on that last ball, the infamous eight, she bent forward right in front of him. Intentional or not, he saw just a glimpse of what that dress hid, and she smiled. Those blue eyes seemed to darken just the slightest, and he had to adjust the collar of his shirt. This kind of flirtation was slight, but it was working wonders. He didn't even notice when she potted the eight ball and won the game. He'd never lost before.

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

Damien screwed up. That was the irony of it all. A seasoned professional making a rookie mistake while the actual rookie knew better. They took a left, because Damien said so, when they should have taken a right. Down a different hall with no rooms instead of finding the elevator he had taken to get here. Not paying attention, running into security personal with one of those high tech card readers.  
His goes through like it should have. Despite the sweat collecting on the back of his neck and the nervous way he was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, the guards barely take a second look at him. Damien, though, they were all over him. As cocky as he was, he hands over his security card easily. A big smirk sits on his face until the reader beeps. The guard swipes it again. Beep. Once more. Beep beep.  
Now his hands are sweating and he looks at Damien and Damien looks back at him. That smirk fading quickly. He says, "oh shit. Must be expired. Guess I forgot to renew it. You know, I'm always forgetting about these kind of-"  
One of the guards reaches for the standard issue handgun strapped to his hip. He remembers the one weighing heavy in the waistband of his pants.  
"Up against the wall." The security guard orders.  
"Now fellas-" Damien holds his hands up.  
"Right now!"  
"Alright alright." He turns toward the cement wall to his left and the guard reaches for his handcuffs, stepping close to his back. Reaching for his wrists, Damien snaps his elbow back and into the guards face, knocking him down. The other one pulls out his gun but before he's able to take aim, he reaches out, snaps his wrist back and punches him in the throat. Gasping on the floor, he grabs Damien's arm and pulls him away. Mission officially compromised.

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

Other men were looking at her but she was looking at him and that fact alone made him feel like a god. By their third drink, and their fourth game, she was slowing down. Her shoes making the soles of her feet ache, her toes stiffening at that angle and her heels feeling sore. She was on his arm because of it, using him so she didn't have to put her weight entirely on her feet and he would have been lying if he said he didn't enjoy the feel of her against his body once again. Of course, it was no secret. He knew it, she knew it. The need for formality had long since passed so when they walked out of Swanney's all over each other, it wasn't awkward.  
It wasn't awkward when, in the darkness of his car, she put both hands on his neck, her thumbs gently running along the sharp cut of his jaw. She was feeling greedy and wanted to taste the whiskey on his lips just as much as she wanted to feel them moving against hers. He had a special taste. A rare flavor, Dylan would say. She couldn't even find the words to describe it.  
The whole thing was very juvenile, an adolescent fantasy, and he felt like an eighteen year old with his hand on her waist and his body twisted slightly over the center console. Her hand went down and gripped his shirt to pull him closer so that he was leaning over the console completely and he had to extend his hand against the seat beside her to settle himself. He wanted to touch her so badly but one hand was keeping himself from falling face first against her while the other was preoccupied with keeping her head from tilting back so their kiss wouldn't break or, more importantly, she didn't crack the back of her head on the door.  
Her fingers worked the buttons on his shirt as she readjusted the way she sat so that both of her knees were set against his hips, her feet pressed against the backs of his thighs. With a certain pressure pressing against the front of his pants, he was thankful that there was no one else around, that he had parked somewhere that offered privacy. He couldn't take it. He leaned back himself and pulled her toward him. Teasing her with the thought of ending the contact, she followed easily, nipping at his lips in an almost spiteful way. He made up for it as he pulled her onto his lap by running his hands up her sides, her lower back, her thighs. Slowly, slowly, his fingers found their way between them as his lips trailed down her jaw and down her neck to settle on her chest, the dip between her breasts.  
With her fingers in his hair, he touched her there between her legs, feeling and hearing the soft little gasp she made at the contact. The pressure between his own legs was becoming intensely uncomfortable until she reached down and gripped him with one hand, feeling him through the fabric of his pants, earning a hot heavy breath against her skin. It was then when he tugged her underwear aside, pushed his middle finger inside her, heard her gasp just a little louder, that he decided he was going to fuck her then and there. The timing couldn't have been any worse. 

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

Traumatic brain injury was the only plausible explanation to how much Damien Poole had fucked up this relatively elementary mission. It had to be that or someone tipped off the Umbrella's security team at this particular facility. Or maybe this was a scheduled execution Mr. No-Name had set up for him and Damien. Maybe it was just for Damien as he had literally zero field experience which didn't make him a liability. Leaving him as just an unfortunate casualty to Damien's own little death march. He would've laughed at his own bad luck if he wasn't really pissed off at life. Or if there wasn't a gun currently pointed directly between his eyes.  
Boy, was he in a sticky pickle.  
A voice. "Shall I dispose of them now, sir?"  
Another. "No."  
The zip ties around his wrists were digging into the skin and rubbing them raw. Damien had been knocked unconscious and was now laying there beside him, bleeding from a cut on his forehead. He said something before he was silenced, something he couldn't quite make out.  
Two uniformed security agents were stationed in front of him, one aiming the gun and the other scrolling on a handheld tablet set onto the sleeve of his uniform. A third man was pacing somewhere in the background behind the two who wore a pressed white suit.  
"Sir?" The agent with the gun said, his voice filtered by the mask he wore.  
"We'll wait for him." The third man replied.  
The agent with the tablet turned his head and said, "I've got his cell, sir."  
There was a sigh, and the third man stopped pacing. Clasping his hands behind his back, he says, "excellent." 

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

The buzzing against his thigh and the immediate shattering of the silence around them caused her to bite his lip. It was completely accidental of course, but the stinging her teeth caused on his lower lip turned him on more than it should have. Tasting the slight metallic of his own blood and hearing his cell's ringtone, he removed his finger but kept it rubbing against her, deciding that her little breathless gasps were a much better sound than that of his phone. But it wouldn't stop ringing and the moment was gone as fast as it had come.  
He sighed, moving one of his hands to her waist and the other into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He'd planned to silence the ringer, to rip the battery from it and toss it to the side but one look at the number made him pause entirely.  
There was a heavy line between work and play that he had created for himself. It was why he'd never been in a long-term relationship and why his job was never spoken of in social situations, as rare as they were. But this, receiving a call from work at this time of night, made him believe something had gone wrong.  
She peeked over his arm, her hand on his cheek, her breathing returning to it's normal in and out. He looked at her in the semi-darkness, the light from the phone's screen illuminating them both in a white glow, and said something along the lines of an apology. And she smiled, reassuringly. She bent to kiss his lips and told him to go if he needed to, understanding the necessity of his demanding job, his S.T.A.R.S job, not the more important one. Then she slipped off him, readjusting her dress in the passenger seat. He watched her for a moment, trying to douse his own arousal to no great effect before excusing himself to get out of the car. He walked a few paces behind, allowing the breeze to hit him to calm himself before answering the phone.  
There was an order spoken from a voice he didn't recognize. When he asked the speaker to identify himself, he received a number, 10021 Security Agent Stavros, and the order was repeated.  
"Report to the East Wing in the Umbrella facility immediately."  
He didn't take orders from security, so he told him to name a superior, someone a little higher on the chain of command than a mere security guard. He expected Birkin but the name he heard was Lorne. A young, arrogant but powerful James Marcus wannabe who was in control of this facility. He couldn't count the times he'd fantasized killing the little bastard.  
"It's an order."  
Of course it was.  
So this was the end of his own social call. His first romantic-he could barely bring himself to say it- escapade in months ruined. Romantic, not sexual because he has his own healthy track record in that regard. He had to take her home. Thirty minutes on the Luther Expressway. One last kiss leaning against the passenger side door, his hand caressing the side of her face. A prolonged look as she walked into her building, making sure she disappeared safety into the elevator, nodding to Tom sitting behind his little security desk in the lobby. A curse was muttered under his breath as he got back into his car and drove away. 

XXXXXX________________________________________________________

"Sir, we have identification."  
"Go on then."  
"This one-"  
"Which one?"  
"The unconscious one, sir."  
"Go on."  
"Damien Poole. Works espionage and theft for Reguvinere. Threat level, high."  
"And the other?"  
"Adam Lowell. Works for Reguvinere but has no record of field training. Threat level is minimal."  
"Has Wesker arrived?"  
"One moment."  
An earpiece sounds.  
"He's coming down the main elevator now." 

XXXXXX________________________________________________________


	2. Liar

"Hey you, you're saying that she's all that you desire  
Liar  
Hey you, You think you can throw water on this fire  
Liar"

 

Daniel Lorne was an average man of average height, of average weight, with average looks. However, his tastes were particular and expensive, expected from a man with his kind of wealth and status. His grandfather was good friends with James Marcus in his day so his role within the company was a privilege for him, unnecessary for the greater picture so he should have been grateful. Not at all.   
Wesker had to try to keep himself from telling Lorne to fuck off when he greeted him at the elevator. As soon as the two large metal doors separated, Lorne's five o'clock shadow and pretentiously styled hair gazed in at him with an odd little smirk on his smug face. Agent Stavros and another unidentifiable rookie stood at his shoulders.   
"Mr. Wesker." His voice was smooth and sly and reminded him vaguely of a serial killer. "How nice of you to join us."  
"Lorne." Wesker replied, moving past him into the hallway leading up to Lab Alley. He had no interest with niceties given the current time of night. "It's late. It's my day off. What could possibly be of such importance you had to drag me out of my expensive bed in the middle of the night for?"   
"Oh?" Lorne gave him an up-down, noticing his attire. "I don't meet many men who sleep comfortably in what could only be described as a casual suit."   
Wesker looked down at himself, one hand in his blazer pocket. It wasn't the kind of thing you'd throw on right out of bed. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he looked at Lorne. With a gesture of his hand toward his white business suit, he said, "You're style is impeccable but rather overdressed for such handwork in an experimental lab. How do you ever get any work done in that? Oh wait-"  
"Now that's enough." The clear irritation sent Wesker's mouth into a full smirk. This type was too easy.   
"What do you want, Daniel?" He asked, not too kindly.  
"While you were out on your day off, there was a breach in security."   
"How interesting." Wesker replied without much interest. He almost lifted his hand to examine his nails. "Did they get away?" It was a rhetorical question; Umbrella has a league of highly trained, highly capable security agents. A fly wouldn't go by without anyone knowing. An exaggeration, obviously.   
"No, of course they didn't. But they managed to get all the way down here and steal one of our samples without someone so much as batting an eye. That's too far."   
"So they were captured?"   
"On lock down."  
"Then what is so urgent that requires my presence?" He was getting irritated as well. Not only was his evening ruined, but now he was tired, and Lorne's working his last nerve. The risk of punching Lorne right in the face at any second was all too real.  
"One of them named you." Lorne said, and it actually caught Wesker off guard for a quick moment. "The older one. Poole. Right before one of my guards knocked his lights out."  
He raised his fine eyebrows in surprise. "That's peculiar."  
"See the way I figure it-" Lorne unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing the butt of a shiny silver handgun with an engraved hilt that looked more for show than actual gunfire. "Two guys from Reguvinere break into our labs, steal our shit, and says your name." He was getting too close to his face now. "You sellin' out on us, Albie?"  
To say that it took every ounce of self-control in his body to not squeeze the life out of this entitled little shit would be an understatement. However, he wasn't sure that would exactly help the situation he was in now. When a thief manages to find their way in here and say you're name, you'd better have a higher power in your favor. So, clenching and unclenching his jaw, biting back his anger, he calmed himself. "Why would I do a thing like that?"  
Lorne shrugs. "You'd be surprised what people would do for money."  
"Let's say I have gone to another company," he begins, almost casually. "It would be to an up and up company with an already perfect standing in view of the public and in bi-monthly product reviews like Axonrite or NeuraLyne. Not one still in it's infancy like Reguvinere, picking for scraps like a stray dog. That's just common sense."  
Wesker could tell Little Danny Lorne's brain was twisting and turning now. There was a reason he was only around for his money. Lorne scoffed, sensing how his ship was sinking in this little argument. "Well, why don't we go and say hi to our new guests, then."  
"I don't see the point to it but fine." His smile was appropriately and shamelessly condescending. "Let's do what little Danny Lorne wants."  
Any other man would retaliate with some strong words or a sharp right hook but that was what was tolerable about Danny; he was a pussy. Physically, he had the strength of an anorexic heroin addict. Mentally, a hard candy; hard on the outside, soft inside. Instead, Lorne just gave him a dirty look and gestured for Wesker to follow Stavros down the hall. "After you," he said.

 

Adam Lowell was supposed to be dead. After joining Reguvinere in it's less than legal branch, he was given a new name and his old life was buried underneath layers and layers of paperwork, red tape, and classified files. For all anyone knew, his name was John Crane. Perhaps John Crane wasn't enough. He wasn't sure if he was stupid or just unlucky when this whole thing unraveled in the worst way.   
Damien was moving at the other side of the room. This small, stone-walled holding cell with a metal bench and toilet where Damien had his head near. Ridiculous. Adam extended his leg from where he sat on the bench and kicked Damien's leg, rousing him further.   
"Wake up, asshole." He said when Damien grunted and blinked his eyes open.  
"Fuck..." He managed to wheeze out. "The hell happened?"  
Adam leaned his head back against the solid wall behind him. He was examining Damien's face, trying to understand how and why he was as important as he and everyone else was led to believe. Surely, he wasn't as deserving of his reputation as he thought he was. Guess it comes with the age.   
"Dumb ass." Adam sighed. "You got yourself pistol whipped in the back of the head by a decked out rent-a-cop."  
"Rent-a-cops aren't military trained and allowed to carry dangerous firearms." Damien groans as he manages to push himself upright. "Last time I checked."  
"Yeah, well." Adam rolled his eyes and readjusted his hands, bound by a too-tight zip tie behind his back. "Hey, how is it you managed to fuck up so bad?" The question came out a little rushed, admittedly, but he was angry so he forgave himself.  
"What?" Damien asked, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light above them.   
"How'd you manage to get us caught?" He leaned forward. "I was doing fine until you showed up."  
"What? Are you jealous?" Damien smirked. "I'm better at this than you are."  
He couldn't believe it. "You got us caught."  
"I'm getting old, kid. These things happen."  
"Oh fuck you."   
The door to the room, which had been shut about thirty minutes before, was pushed open then and a new man walked through. 

 

So far in his career, there have been about four other instances of a breach in security that Wesker had been directly involved with. Two were spies searching for intel. They were easily dispatched. The other two involved animal rights activists who swore that Umbrella was testing on animals and the occasional human which for the record, they were, just not on the floor they were looking on. They were a little trickier to dispose of as they were more known considering the organizations they belonged to. People would have known they were missing and call for an investigation which could have been traced back to Umbrella resulting in unwanted negative media attention.  
This time was just like all the others except these were two of the most incompetent men Wesker had met, besides Chris of course. Damien was definitely the stupider of the two but Adam, he was the gullible one. He had potential, Wesker had to admit, but he was too young, too eager, too inexperienced. He should have known better.   
"Which one's which?" Wesker said, looking from one to the other. He ignored the way Adam looked at him, something changing in his eyes. A look somewhere along the lines of recognition flashed across his young face very briefly before he set his jaw and regained a neutral expression. It was too quick for Lorne to catch.   
"Poole." Lorne said, pointing to the man sitting by the toilet, squinting at them. He then pointed to the young man sitting on the bench, "Lowell."   
Damien Poole was a weathered man with grey streaking his trimmed hair and he sported a scar on the left of his mouth. Dark eyes that looked at him without care. There was something in his face that annoyed Wesker, he just couldn't figure out what it was.  
Adam Lowell was interesting to him because of the youth still softening his face. His brown hair was falling slightly over his eyes without his hand free to push it back. Too young. But there was determination in his stark eyes, a certain spark that reminded Wesker very much of himself when he first started out at the easy age of eighteen. His own reflection stared at him as he stood in the doorway. This wouldn't end well for him.  
"Now you tell me." Lorne said, his breath hot at the back of Wesker's neck despite the obvious height difference. "These two don't look familiar?"   
Wesker was slow to answer. "Never seen them in my life."   
The boy's eyes flitted away, to a crack in the wall.  
"Are you sure, Al?" Lorne's voice was beginning to frustrate him. "Take a good look at 'em. Jog your memory a little."   
Wesker snapped his head to look at Lorne. With a tense jaw, "I am not lying."  
It didn't seem to satisfy him. "One of them said your name, clear as day, and I think that allows me to be a little concerned-"  
"We read it in a file." Said a sudden voice that belonged to neither Wesker nor Lorne. It was Adam. "We read his name in a file. Albert Wesker, right?"   
Wesker raised an eyebrow as he looked back at the boy.   
"What?" Lorne barked, seemingly irritated that his accusations were being interrupted.  
"We wanted to know who was who and what was what in this facility before we decided to come down here." He explained. Even Poole looked surprised. "A little background research goes a long way. Thought you guys knew that."  
For the longest time, Lorne just stared at Adam, completely baffled. It was impressive to say the least, the lies coming out of that boys mouth.  
"Well, there you have it." Lorne looked back at Wesker. "These gentlemen have done their research. They probably even know your social security and how you gave herpes to a poor lab assistant two years ago." Wesker patted him on the shoulder once and then moved to exit the room. Lorne growled and reached quickly for the lapel of Wesker's blazer, holding him there. Wesker's hand shot up, gripping the man's wrist and pushing him back. That was it. Wesker was going to hurt him.   
And then Stavros held him back, catching on quickly, allowing Lorne to rip away from immediate danger. Wesker saw him reach for Stavros' gun and his hand went to his back where a handgun was usually stuck in the waistband of his pants but now was missing; muscle memory. Truly, the imbecile wasn't stupid enough to shoot him right there was he? Wesker prepared himself.  
But Lorne never raised the gun. Instead, he held the butt out to him. "Take it." He ordered. Initially, Wesker refused, but then he realized a gun in his hand was better than a gun in Lorne's. It felt slightly heavier this time, strangely.   
"Shoot them." Lorne ordered looking at Damien and Adam. "Shoot them both."   
"Let Stavros and his team deal with it." Wesker scoffed, moving to hand Stavros the gun.  
"No." Lorne held his hand up to Stavros, stopping him from taking it. Looking at Wesker, "you do it."  
He shook his head. "No."  
"You'll do it-" It sounded like the beginnings of a threat. "Or I'll pull you off all your current projects and you'll be synthesizing easier to swallow boner pills for the next year."   
The room was quiet. Wesker could have shot him right then and there, but he didn't. It wouldn't have been the right time. Patience was as much part of the job description as a high IQ. Patience and compliance. Sometimes there were orders that had to be followed, no matter the nature.   
"Shouldn't management review them first before we execute them?" Wesker weighed the gun in his hand. It didn't at all feel right, not this time.  
"They are threats. Thieves stealing our hard work. They need to be dealt with accordingly." Lorne made a show of straightening the creases in his suit, not even looking at the two watching, waiting for their own execution.   
That boy was looking directly at Wesker and he didn't stop looking as he stepped closer and raised it to Damien's head. There was a bang and it was already half over. The sound of brain matter, blood, and skull fragments splattering on the cement wall echoed in the room and flooded Wesker's ears. Damien didn't even fight.  
It wasn't over, not yet. Holding the gun to Adam's head was different and he felt himself hesitating with his finger on the trigger. The boy stared up the barrel of the gun at him. In his experience, men shook. They cried, they whimpered, they tried to bribe, they pleaded with choked cries and talk of their children and wives and they were all dispatched without hesitation. And here was this boy, young and fresh and inexperienced, just staring almost coldly into the face of his murderer. There was no shaking, no crying, no fear at all. To that, Wesker felt something as he pushed the trigger.  
Was it guilt?

 

"You look like shit."   
William Birkin kept his beer in the medical fridge where the blood samples were stored. It definitely went against some of the rules but this was his lab and he worked hard to get here. Sometime's a beer was essential, he believed.  
Wesker sat in a chair near one of the two metal examination tables, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. There was a spot of dried blood on his right palm that he wasn't sure how it got there. As soon as Adam and Damien were dead, he shoved the gun into Lorne's chest and left. It's weight still present in his hands. They were the clean up crew's problem now.   
"You've definitely seen better days too, Will." He looked up just as William offered him an open beer. It wasn't his drink and Will knew but he took it anyway.   
Popping the cap off of his own bottle, Will shrugged. "The baby is cruel."   
"Keeps you up at night?"  
"Every time Annette and I find some peace- which is usually at two in the morning by the way, did I tell you? Anyway, every time we begin to fall asleep, she knows and she cries and it sounds like a tornado siren. Sometime's I can still hear her when she's not around." Will takes a sip from his beer. "I can now kind of understand why my dad left."  
A quick and small unexpected laugh escaped from Wesker then. Shaking his head, he said, "babies do that."   
Will suddenly waved his hand and swallowed whatever beer was left in his mouth. Awkwardly, he says, "sorry, I didn't mean to mention uh, baby.."  
"It's fine." He says firmly. "I'm over it." Lifting the beer to his lips, he looked away and took a long drink. Watching, Will would have said he was drinking the same way a man would if he had a lot on his mind. He supposed it seemed right. Wesker probably had a thousand things running through his head, not all good things, and he kept them all to himself. Sure, Will knew about some of them but Wesker was never the type to share his pain with others. It made him strong. Maybe too strong, if you asked him.  
The lab grew quiet. They drank their beers in silence. William knew something had happened given Wesker's mood, but he didn't want to ask. If he was up to it, Wesker would mention it himself. But the silence was becoming unnerving, and he needed to learn to not be so stubborn.  
"Alright." William began, setting down his now empty bottle on the table he was sitting on. "What happened?"  
To William's surprise, he came right out with it. "Our side business venture self-destructed in a bad way."  
"Our business venture?" William repeated, confused.   
"Our deal with Reguvinere." Wesker glanced at William.  
"I thought you were joking about that. We were drunk. You actually went through with that?"  
"You were drunk." Wesker seemed to correct him. "They were offering a pretty penny. Did you really think I would pass it up without a second thought?"  
"Jesus, Al. You could've been killed for that."  
"Anyway, it doesn't matter now. My connection is dead." He sighs.  
"Is that why you have such a long face?"   
Wesker didn't answer, not right away. He couldn't find the words to explain why he seemed to be in such a mood. On the surface, he could blame it on the money he had just lost which was quite a lot, to say the least. He could've blamed it on how very close he came to being caught. The repercussions for that was more than just a slap on the wrist. No, it was more the fact that he had to kill the boy, Adam. That was another question he had for himself. Why was he conflicted about killing him? He'd killed others before and didn't feel much remorse, if any. He could still see that boy's eyes...  
"It was a lot of money, Will." He said finally, choosing to end this conversation quickly. Thankfully, that was the end of that and the lab was quiet again.   
When Wesker raised the bottle to his lips again, William noticed something else. With his blazer gone, folded up and placed on the other table, Wesker sat in his white shirt, sleeves rolled up, buttons slightly undone. William saw something on the collar and he had to take a long, close look to be actually sure of what it was.   
"You've got lipstick on you're collar." He said.  
Wesker looked down at himself. "Do I?"  
William nods. "Damn, Albert. Back at it again with the one night stands."  
He looks back up at him. "You're the only one for me, I swear."  
"You're the biggest slut I know." William deadpanned. "Who was she this time?"  
"Just a girl."  
"You know promiscuous behavior can be a sign of a psychological disorder."  
"Oh fuck off." Wesker finished off his beer and stood. Making his way to the fridge for a second, he added, "I'm fine."  
"Annette's a little worried actually."  
He raised an eyebrow. "What for?"  
"Well she knows about the whole thing with Lydia."  
"Will, please-" He sighed, gripping the handle to the fridge as he opened it. There was only one bottle left.   
"We're just kind of worried about you. That's all." William ran a hand through his hair. "We care about you, you know that."  
He didn't respond. The sentimentality of the statement was not lost on him, but it wasn't an easy thing for him to show in return. Grabbing the bottle and closing the fridge, he handed it to William and cleared his throat. Saying thank you, he quickly popped the cap off and took a swig as Wesker stood in front of him.  
Crossing his arms, he said, "she wasn't just a one night stand."  
William almost choked. Through a fit of spluttering and coughing, he managed, "what do you mean?"  
"That I might just be willing to try this again."  
"Oh Al-" William started to shake his head but he held up a hand to stop him.  
"Might." Wesker emphasized.  
"I'm a little confused." William furrowed his brow. "What happened to all that 'never again' bullshit? Thought you were happy being single forever."  
To that, he was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. There was something in his eyes, William noticed, that he had seen in his friend only once before.   
"Forever is a long time, Will." He sighed finally, and then he added almost too quickly, "it may not even last anyway." He tried to change the conversation then with a question about Annette. William wasn't going to have it.  
"Al, don't you think it's a little risky-" He set his beer on the table beside him, no longer interested, "to be involved with someone in your situation?"  
"What situation?"  
"You know what situation. After your failed 'business venture'-" air quotes on that, "Umbrella's going to be taking a long hard look at you for a while. Not to mention your buyers who are sure to be unhappy with you. We've lost people to that before."   
"I'll be fine." He waved him off.   
"How can you be so sure?"  
"The only person that can tie me to this," he lowered his voice to a steady whisper, "is already dead."  
"So you say." William stretched his arms behind his head, his lab coat straining against his arms and the bottom of his shirt pulled free of his pants. "Hell, Al. You're a free man. Why'd you want to get tied down to a single woman again?"  
Wesker scoffed but let him continue.  
"They want loyalty. Mind numbing, spirit crushing loyalty as you listen to them bitch and explain everything you're doing wrong. They want you to say stuff you don't mean and show them how you feel every minute of everyday. They want marriage, they want babies, they want your money."  
"Will-"  
"Let's be real, all they want is control. And God forbid you forget a date. Birthdays, anniversaries. And if you marry her, you marry her bitchier, more intolerable mother and she's not going to love you-"  
"Shut the fuck-"  
"In a few years, she'll start to blame you for ruining her life, her dreams, her figure. You can forget all about sex-"  
"Will!"   
William paused. Wesker stared at him. Silence until William smirked and laughed. "I'm joking, you idiot."  
"Oh really? Is there something I have to tell Annette?"  
"Don't you dare." William pointed a finger. "I love my wife to death and our couch isn't as comfortable as it once was."   
Wesker laughed then, a rich and smooth sound that was rare but lovely to hear. Pride found William as he had helped create it. But as soon as it started, it faded, and Wesker's face returned to that somber expression that was starting to look so normal upon his features. William tried to decipher it to no avail. At this point, William shouldn't have even tried. Sighing, he looked away and Wesker went around to the other table to pick up his blazer.   
"Seriously though, this kind of life-" William began again without any previous humor. Wesker paused slightly, putting his left arm through the sleeve. "It isn't one you'd want to bring the people you care about into. The things we do down here..."  
"I get it." Wesker slipped the rest of his blazer on. "Don't lecture me. That's Annette's job, if you've forgotten."  
"She'll say the same thing. Hell, it gets to us as well and we both work here. My daughter, though..."  
"Jesus, enough." Wesker offered a chuckle, more to ease the tension he could feel forming in the room. "If Sherry's anything like Annette, even the Devil should tread lightly."   
Wesker went to pat his friend on the shoulder, "take it easy. I'm going to enjoy the rest of my weekend off." As he was walking to the door, he called over his shoulder. "Give Annette and Sherry a kiss from me." 

 

"How was it?" Dylan asked, barging into Claire's room just as she slipped out of her dress. The two barely acknowledged the fact that she was bare in nothing but grey underwear and a black bra as he made his way over to the bed. Dropping onto her burgundy comforter and clutching one of her pillows over his chest, "those panties don't match that bra."  
She grabbed a plain white t-shirt that was strewn over the back of her desk chair and pulled it on. "Black goes with everything."  
Dylan shrugged and watched as she managed to unclasp her bra and slip it off without taking off her shirt. "I've seen tits before, Claire." He feigned offense.   
"Not mine." She answered with a smirk, tossing her bra onto the chair. She pulled her red hair into the messiest of buns before she joined him on the bed. Inching close and leaning back against the headboard next to him, he laid his head on her shoulder. He smelled like weed.   
"Especially yours."  
There was something poking her in the back and she had to lean to the right at a weird angle to grab whatever it was. She should have known that the TV remote would be wedged between her pillows and ultimately, buried halfway up her ass when she sat down. It took a little maneuvering but she managed to get it and turn on the TV in record time. Right into a sea of unfunny sitcoms and reality TV that should come with a warning label. The slow melting process of the human brain is an irreversible condition for which there is no cure.   
"Put it on channel twenty-seven. They're showing reruns of Queer as Folk."  
Channel twenty-seven.   
"So I want details." Dylan said. "Was he a perfect gentleman or was he a complete asshole?"  
The events of the night played in her head like a sped up movie and a smile found her face. "It was..." She had to find the right word. "Great." Not the best word but it was something.  
"Excuse me, I said details."   
"A girl shouldn't kiss and tell."   
"Ugh, you're no fun. Fine." Dylan got off her shoulder and leaned back, crossing his arms. "At least tell me if a second date is in the picture."   
Claire rubbed her eyes. "I don't know. Probably. I didn't get to ask since his job called him up for an emergency."   
"He's a cop, right?"  
She nodded as she nestled in close to him. "He's Chris' captain."  
Dylan turned his head to look at her. "What does he think about you and his cap?"  
"I haven't told him."  
"You haven't?"  
"It was one date." She patted his chest. "It's not like we're getting married."  
"Dang, and here I am planning the perfect wedding for you." He held up his hands and framed the air. "White sandy beach, the big blue ocean. Doves flying overhead."  
"Oh shut up. With my bank account, I'm lucky to get one in a church."   
"Oh, don't sell yourself short. Anyway, so you like him?"  
"Well, I wouldn't mind seeing him again." She begins to smile. "And again. And again."  
"Excellent. Now I never have to hear Shane's name in this house ever again." He looked up toward the white ceiling and made a show of pretending to pray to a god, pressed palms and all. Watching, it made her laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queer as Folk is an amazing show, just saying. 
> 
> Inspiration:  
> Liar by Korn


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was attempting to have the main story set in the past with certain flashforwards into the present in which the world has ended and Claire is now a part of a colony settled in an old motel with Leon. I'm sure this could've been explained within the story but I realized that this has gotten a little confusing so to avoid that I'll just explain it here. These flashforwards aren't as important now however they will become a main part of the story (sort of like an epilogue) later on. So far now, main story is set in the past and every now and then there will be a chapter set in the present as a sort of grimy reminder of reality. Thanks!

  
_Whiskey, give it to me straight_  
_Straight and strong. We’ll drink until it’s gone_  
_Dirty, I got a dirty mouth. Say what I want to say_  
_Can’t wash it away_  
  
An old bottle of Jameson caught his eye with one lucky glint on it's dust covered glass from the flashlight strapped to his rifle. It was amazing how he saw it in that dank, dark room of an old, long abandoned house in what they called Hostile Suburbia, which to be honest, didn't seem too hostile today, oddly. Usually, they couldn't get past the first block without spotting a Licker or the average everyday zombie.

  
It was Leon and Dylan in the house, him downstairs in the basement and Dylan upstairs. Ada and a guy called Brad were out in another house across the street. They were on a routine supply run, searching for any edible food, medical supplies, medicine, clothes, blankets. Winter was on it's way and the nights here get especially cold. There was a river near the hotel with fresh water so that wasn't as much a priority as the rest. His backpack was already filled with pill bottles and gauze and a few cans of Spam and it was nearing sundown which told him they needed to be back soon. The Jameson, though, he couldn't just leave it.

  
No one was in dire need of a good ole glass of whiskey despite the circumstances but he just couldn't bear to part with it. Picking it up, he walked back to the stairs that led down into the basement and examined it further in the light as he walked up. He coughed once to clear his throat of the heavy dust that had settled in that part of the house and stuck the bottle into his backpack. Maybe it would be better off a secret, and he knew exactly what he could do with it. Readjusting the bag on his back, he laid the rifle against his right shoulder and found himself at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor of the house. He knocked on the hollow wall three times and called up to Dylan.

  
"Let's go." He knocked again and stared up the stairs. Dylan appeared then and gave him a look as he descended the stairs.

  
"Should we be heading back now?" Dylan asked, both of them making their way to the front of the house. Leon checked his watch that, by some miracle, still worked. Seven fifty-eight. The sun was going down.

  
"The freaks come out at night." Leon answered offering a tired smile as they crossed the cracked asphalt. There was an old brick mailbox in front of a dilapidated two-story with chipped and broken faded red bricks that Dylan immediately sat on top of as Leon tried to look into the house's dark windows.

  
"I swear to god, I've seen this house before." Dylan squinted at it, waving his finger in the air. "What was that movie? Paranormal Activity?"

  
Leon clasped his hands together. "The Amityville Horror?" He tightened his fingers together and blew between the small space between his thumbs, a low pitched bird call echoing in the quiet.

  
Dylan looked at him. "The original or the Ryan Reynolds version?" 

He shrugs before making the sound again and he let his hands fall to his sides. "Remakes are usually for shit."

"That Evil Dead remake was pretty good, though."

  
Leon shrugged. "In it's own right but it didn't have any Bruce Campbell so-"

  
"What are you boys talking about now?" Ada emerged from the darkened doorway, Brad trailing behind her. Leon found himself smirking as they joined them by the mailbox in the front yard.

  
"Horror movies." Dylan answered and Ada made a face.

  
"We're living a horror movie." She said, hand on her hip. Over the years, she hadn't lost her flair, evidenced by the tight jeans and the designer leather jacket she wore right now, albeit a little resigned now. Her hair had grown slightly longer by an inch or two despite her constantly cutting it. Her complex eyes remained the same as they looked from him to Leon. They were always his favorite shade.

  
"At least we know the endings to the ones we've watched." Brad chimed in. He was a new guy but he seemed reliable. Claire atleast, thought he was reliable enough to send on runs with them.

  
"Let's get back to the Jeep." Leon said and Dylan nodded before hopping off the mailbox. Leading them down the street from where they came originally, he couldn't stop thinking about the bottle of whiskey weighing heavy in his backpack.

 

* * *

 

 

At the end of the world, some days were definitely better than others. Leon knew it, Dylan knew it, even Jake knew it. Claire had the burden of having to shoulder all the bad days when there'd be food shortages, dying crops, particularly cold winters, sickness, nomads. Everyone knew where to go when problems inevitably surfaced and that was her. She didn't ask to lead them. The desire for it was absent within her but they declared her it just the same. She wishes it weren't her that had to make all the hard decisions, that had to make sure everyone was doing alright and had a safe place to call home.

  
The responsibility didn't bother her. It was the what if's and the maybe's of life now that did. All that uncertainty kept her awake at night, Leon nuzzled into her neck, his arm draped over her stomach, holding her close and only barely reminding her that she was not alone. She was planning, always planning things in her head. Sustainability was the most important thing to her. Permanence. They all needed a home.

  
When she walks around her camp, she's looking for something to do. A small, easy-fix job or a minor issue that she could resolve. Mostly because she can't stand being idle; something always feels wrong. She needs something to occupy her mind, to distract her. Sometime's it's settling room arrangements, assigning jobs, assisting in maintaining the crops, helping Joe the mechanic check out the cars they've collected over the years. Hell, she even played with the kids when there was absolutely nothing else to do. And of course, Leon always helps keep her mind clear, though it somehow feels different now in a way she can't explain or reason. Dylan says she's just stressed, overworked. That she needs to take a day, relax by herself and she finally gave in and promised she would just so he would shut up.

  
Sitting up on the roof of this shabby motel they all called home now, she could see people, her people, walking around and living. That's all she has to do, right? Keep them living? That's going well so far but for how long? From here, she can see Jake. He's walking around holding a beat up basketball with a girl at his side. Lana, maybe. Just about that age, she thinks and promises herself she won't butt in and be that overbearing mother she always feared she'd become. She looks away.

  
Of all places she could have shifted her eyes to, it had to be to the little corner under the giant sign beaten down by the weather bearing the motel's name where her brother was currently sitting under. That kid, whats-his-face, sitting near him. Always together, she's noticed. She humored Dylan's very plausible theory that Chris, having lost contact with a certain Jill Valentine, had given up and joined the other team. All that love to one woman, there's nothing left for anyone else. At least with whats-his-face, he's not so alone. But God, does she miss him. The old him. Not the grouchy, hardened, broken bastard he is now.

  
He looks up at her. There was a time where they could exchange a thousand words with a glance. They could speak to each other almost telepathically the way close siblings do. She knew when he needed comfort (his eyes would turn down, never really locking on anyone else's), he knew when she needed reassurance (her eyes would shift, never really focusing on one thing). At least before there was anger and resentment, hurt and pain from both sides. But now, there was nothing. She couldn't read a thing on his face or in the eyes they shared. Maybe there really was nothing left between them. She's the first to look away.

  
Coming into the parking lot, was one of her Jeeps. Or rather hers and Leon's. It was going slow which meant good news. If something went wrong, they'd have sped in, throwing up dust and creating a scene. Sending people on runs didn't make her nervous anymore, but she still would have gone herself; she hated the idea of someone getting hurt when it could have been her. You take your cuts and bruises like a champ and wear that shit like armor.

  
The Jeep finds it's place next to the two other cars they were lucky to scavenge and the four sitting in it hop out. There was Brad, then Dylan pushing his long blond hair back, an old looking hunting rifle strapped to his shoulder, looking pretty much the same except for the obvious. She liked that, the consistency. He stepped up where Chris stepped down, or rather, he and Leon. Subtract one, add two. Useless math now. Leon's not far behind, walking side by side with that woman, Ada. Another woman would be...jealous, something of that nature. But no, nothing like that mattered anymore. Plus, she knew how much Ada's frustratingly teasing behavior annoyed Leon.

  
Claire was done being idle, always the busy body, and she makes her way off the motel roof. She always liked leveled ground, organic earth, better anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

"What are you doing? Looking at ghosts, old man?"

  
"Ghosts don't exist anymore. Whatever's dead comes back."

  
Brandon readjusted against the metal pole they were leaning against. The way they were sitting on the ground underneath the big motel sign brought him back to when he was younger and he would hang out with his friends, doing things his mother may not have been too proud of. Spending his time with people that weren't the best company. Nothing has changed really.

  
"You miss her?" He says, playing with the strings of his sweater. 

Chris furrowed his brow and looked at him. "Who?"

"Claire." He sighed. Sometime's the old man played dumb.

He scoffed but it seemed so half-hearted. "She's not dead, is she?"

Brandon shrugged again. "I just figured since you keep staring at her like a lost dog that you missed her. That or there's some Lannister shit going on with you that I don't know and don't care to know about."

Chris punched the kid hard on the shoulder, earning a wince, a yelp, and a "dude, what the fuck?"

"Don't talk like that!" Chris growled, settling back. Holding his shoulder, Brandon inched away, his face twisted up angrily. 

"Maybe that's why no one likes you." He said. Chris shrugged. "You're too rough-and-tumble." 

"Have to be. Anyway, let me ask you something." 

"Go ahead." 

"You seen any dogs around?" He started looking at the trees. The dog he saw earlier was scratching at his mind; they weren't many around anymore. Not ones that were healthy, seemingly docile like the one he saw. It was too suspicious and weird to just let go.

"What? You looking for a little buddy?" Brandon smirked, still rubbing his now bruised shoulder. "Something to cuddle with on those cold winter nights?"

"You want me to punch you again?"

Brandon held up his hands in surrender. "Go easy. Anyway, no, I haven't seen any of our former, furry, four-legged friends. Why?"

He shook his head. The trees were still, quiet, but he had the feeling someone was watching him. Paranoia brought on by his previous job, he'd admit. "Just wondering." He said, his tone one of finality. He stood up and wiped the back of his worn out jeans. 

"Don't go crazy on me now." Brandon said, eyeing him from where he sat.

"Too late for that, haven't you heard?"

 

* * *

 

 

A cautionary tale given in a sigh by a worried mother to her children, aged thirteen and nine, played ironically in her head. It was her uncle, her mother's brother, who had been the family alcoholic. Her mother stood by the kitchen counter, one hand on her hip, and tried to explain what was wrong with their uncle Kyle. She said, "Kyle isn't a bad person."  
  
The news that Kyle had been arrested wasn't surprising; he had been nursing sorrow with booze for a while by then, but it hadn't caused a problem before. He paced himself, knew in a day when too much was too much, and he was a happy drunk. It was a total misunderstanding, Kyle had said and said and said again. His story was that he was just sitting at the bar, enjoying his drink by himself when a girl came up and sat right beside him. They talked, they drank, and then her boyfriend came looking to start up something. Kyle wasn't a fighting type of guy, a self-proclaimed pacifist, but the way the guy reached behind his back put it into his head that he was going to pull out a knife. So he hit first and ended up in jail. 

"Now my loves," her mother continued. "Booze isn't the answer to your problems."

Of course it's not and for the most part she was right, but she never accounted for flesh eating monsters. Who could blame her then when she used a nice glass of whiskey to forget about years of complete bullshit? Definitely not Leon.

He had waited about three and a half hours going on four to get her off-duty and back in their room, a little two bedroom with a kitchenette, big enough to fit their little family. Jake had said it first, family, and they didn't necessarily confirm nor deny him this so without saying it that's what they were. He had reasoned that the boy needed some kind of father-figure and that he needed Claire but in the back of his mind this was what he wanted, a family. It didn't even matter that no one ever called it that. 

Leon smirked tiredly, watching as Claire pulled her shirt off, all ribs and milky skin. They do their absolute best to keep bellies full but sometimes it just wasn't enough. They weren't emaciated but they didn't exactly keep on a healthy weight either. She pulled the tie out of her hair and the red strands fell against her pale back like silk against white tile, looking so soft. Claire put a different shirt on, one that was a size too big and then took off her jeans, getting comfortable before getting into bed beside him. When her head hit the pillow, he thought for sure that she had knocked out instantly since her eyes closed and she didn't say anything or move an inch. He knew better than to wake her, a lesson learned a long time ago, so when he went to turn off the light he was surprised when she started to speak. 

"Long day?" She asked, looking up at him. 

He shrugged. "Not the longest I've had. You?"

She shrugged. "Pretty boring, honestly."

Leon got back into bed. "Boring's good though, isn't it." 

"You'd think." She pushed herself up on elbows and kissed his lips. His hand found her cheek and stroked the still soft skin there with his thumb. She doesn't kiss like she used to, but he wouldn't stop kissing her for the world. 

"I got you something." He managed in a breath, his lips lingering against hers. 

"Oh yeah?" Pulling away, she smiled and settled on her back, putting her leg over his. "What is it then?" 

His backpack sat in the ancient armchair sitting near the bed and all he had to do was reach out and grab it. "It's not anything fancy but-" he pulls out the bottle. "Thought maybe you'd like it." 

He may have been wrong but he could've swore that he saw a flicker in those baby blue eyes of hers. Then a smile. "The gods smile upon me today." 

Leon looked at the bottle. It was still a little dirty even though he cleaned it up earlier as best he could. He shook it. "Instead of riches and immortality, the gods grant whiskey?" 

Claire shrugged. "Different folks, different strokes. Give it here."

 

* * *

 

 

Leon knows everything about her. That fact should scare her- there are some things about her even she doesn't like knowing- but it doesn't. She guesses that's what love is even though she's already felt love in the past. It's a very different kind of love, very hard to explain. And it surprises her that she can still admit the truth and call it love with all that's happened but she decides not to lie to herself. She loves Leon, and she's loved him, but it's not the same. 

Claire loves the way she doesn't need to hide herself from him, all the worst parts of her. He knows her, accepts her for the flawed human being she is and vice versa. He was the one by her side, on deck with support while giving her enough distance to do her own thing, ever since things became bad. Even before then. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, though weathered and faded, still forming a discernible picture, but only when put together. 

Sometime's it drove her crazy. When they would kiss or touch, or more, it was common to see someone else's face. Granted, she would compare his kiss to that of the man before, she dare not say his name (it had begun to burn her tongue). It made her feel guilty that she was still thinking of him when Leon was every bit the more desirable man but it was something she had no control over. Even now as she pulls his shirt over his head, she half-expects to see a different face come out under the other side. 

She blames it on the whiskey. That has to be it. Why else would she be consciously thinking of him when Leon's lowering down above her, his lips form-fitting against hers, his hands on her bare waist. That's what he tasted of, that she could remember; whiskey. It was his guilty pleasure, minus the guilty part. Whiskey and Armani cologne. Fucking intoxicating. 

Leon tastes slightly like salt and the fruit from this morning's breakfast. She can't taste the whiskey they've shared or smell any cologne along his collar bone. His hair is long and her fingers disappear beneath the sandy locks, not the texture she's used to. The scars on his body are faint, but she finds them easily. He kisses soft and lets her lead until he can't take it and takes control. He's gentle but he nips at her skin here and there, pulls on her hair because he knows she likes it. He doesn't hold her hands down over her head, alternating lips and teeth against the soft skin of her neck, that turns her on more than she would ever admit. That's the difference, and she hates it. 

When they're finished, she's laying on her side and he's got one arm around her naked waist, palm flat against her stomach with his nose buried in the crook of her neck. She's wide awake, listening to his breathing and feeling his chest rise and fall slowly against her back. Leon's skin is warm. His body is comforting but she thinks of another, hot and solid against her body. Thoughts like that plague her more than she'd like and the guilt that comes with it are sometimes unbearable. 

Leon is a good man, flawed too just like her. The way he understands and accepts her, how he knows everything about her and still loves her without trying to, means more to her than she could ever imagine. Some part of her, way deep at the back of her mind, she knows she doesn't deserve him. Not because she's so damn flawed or damaged, but because whenever she's laying with him she's thinking of her husband. Long dead somewhere in Africa, his plague birthed to the world like a second son, more loved than the one he left behind. His presence, his touch, still a ghost lingering on her skin. 

Claire stares at the almost empty whiskey bottle left on the nightstand in front of her, barely visible in the dark. She's sobering now but wide awake. The ghost was never a secret, not between them. Living on her shoulder like her mind's devil, poking at her ear with his pitchfork and mocking Leon with a tiny high pitched voice. He knew about it but it never seemed to bother him. He kissed that spot on her shoulder and gave her a look from those smokey blue eyes of his and, without words, told her that he loved all of her no matter what. That he saw past her hard shell and looked at her completely naked in all of her mistakes, all of the negativity, her scars, her rough skin, and loved her through it all. 

_Not like I loved you..._

Claire reached for his hand against her stomach and squeezed his fingers. She thought he was sleeping but was surprised when he moved slightly and kissed her there on her shoulder, pulling her tighter against him.

  
"Don't listen." He whispered. "He's gone." 

Closing her eyes, she whispered back. "I know."

"Try to get some sleep" His thumb stroked her skin. "It'll be better in the morning."

Only it won't be, she knows that. Maybe even he knows that. She'll always have that ghost whispering and cackling in her ear, touching her with chilled fingers and making her shiver. The only reprieve is knowing Leon would be there to warm her back up as best he could. 

She loves him because he understands that he'll never be the only one. Because the real her comes with ghosts and demons and an ugly that was too big to ignore. She loves him still even though she knows it will never be a complete and pure kind of love. She loves that he knows that and is still around. There's no hiding who she is and she loves how he never forces her to.

_I won’t give nothing less of me_  
_Nothing less than all of me_  
_I’ll take you as you are_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this wasn't too confusing/unexpected.


	4. Chapter 4

_And that's the right opinion_   
_Although at night I'm slipping_   
_Win her, never ring her, now she thinks I'm a_ _villain_

The story behind the boys in the ring was intriquing but not something people haven't seen before. The Cinderella story of inner-city youths undergoing a life-changing transformation due to the power and integrity of physical sports was a tale as old as time. The Rocci Boxing League was no such exception, not even when her boss is making her do an article on these feather-weight champions. A community piece, he called it. Same old, same old.

Claire had to admit though, that Alejandro Blades packed one hell of a punch for a sixteen year old. The coach, a tall and muscular man named Domingo Perez, said he was the best he'd ever trained. She watched him spar against another kid, practically kicking his ass, from the sidelines where she took a few pictures on her camera.  
Her phone rang then, just as she was about to snap a picture of Alejandro socking the other kid with a surprising southpaw. Truly impressive. Letting the camera fall against her chest on it's strap, she pulls her phone out of her jeans pocket and excuses herself.

A part of her immediately hopes that she'll see a certain phone number displayed on her screen but she knows it won't be there. Alas, no dice. She tried to hide her slight disappointment behind a smirk as if the person on the other end could see it anyway.

"Now what can I do for you, Officer?" She says, her voice smooth and light.

"What's up, Claire-bear?" Comes Chris' ever upbeat voice. "Feels like it's been ages." 

She makes her way to an empty hall with lockers on the wall where the kids would keep their stuff. Leaning against one locker, she rolls her eyes. "It's only been, what, a week? Other than that, the longest we've been apart was when we were separated by birth."

"Oh, those were the best four years of my life. Then of course you just had to be born." The chuckle Chris gave was contagious and she found herself giggling. 

"Don't be such a dick." She says. "Anyway, what blessed me with your voice?" 

"Alright, alright." He pauses and she can hear some shuffling on the other end, and then a very muffled voice, distinctly female. "I uh- I kind of told everyone on my squad that my kid sister plays pool like no one's business and we're all going to a bar tonight."

"Alright and?"

"I need you, sis. I need to prove I ain't a liar." 

"Sounds like a bit of a personal problem." She examines her nails.

"Oh come on. You love pool." 

"Depends. Bet or no bets?"

"Depends who you're playing."

"I'll think about it." 

Chris groans. "Oh, come on. Like you got anything planned tonight." 

"Actually-"

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, kid."

Ouch. Score one for the elder Redfield. "Jackass. I have work tomorrow." Then she realizes- "I have work right now." 

"Come on. I'll drive you home, make sure you're tucked in all safe and sound, and I'll make you coffee in the morning."

"Sweeten the pot for me, dear." 

"Bragging rights." 

Claire deliberated this for a second. Bragging rights was on par with gold between the Refield siblings. For six months, Claire had lived with Chris calling himself the worlds greatest Pac-Man player when they were in middle school; it was Ms. Pac-Man. She needed something to hang over his head; it's been a few years since she had something like that last. 

"I will destroy you." She says with an incredible amount of confidence in her voice.

 

* * *

 

 

Jill loves Chris, there it is. She loves his stupid shit-eating grin, his big brown eyes, the way he laughs so hard you'd think his ribs might bust open. She loves all of him. All of him which includes his grumpy days where he just wakes up and hates the world. The way he sometimes forgets and leaves the toilet seat up. How he occasionally talks in his sleep when she stays over. Jill just loves him, but she will never tell him. That word was never really in the Valetine vocabulary but neither was it in the Redfield's.

He's on his second beer when Claire walks in. Jill feels like she hasn't seen baby Red in ages and can't stop herself from pulling that girl into a bear hug. 

"Yeah." She strains, her mouth almost buried in the other woman's hair. "Those are my internal organs."

"Sorry not sorry." Jill grins as she releases her. "Affection can hurt."

A smile. "What's up, Jilly?" 

Jill gestures around the room. "You know, just hanging out." 

"Who's here? Other than you and my brother." 

"Most of the squad." Jill turns her around by the shoulders. "Barry." She points to the burly, yet cleanshaven, man trying his hand at darts near the back behind the pool tables. "Joseph." Her finger then goes to a younger in a slightly wrinkled STARS shirt sitting at the bar talking to a few girls. "Oh, and Brad." She adds as another man joins Joseph, beer in hand. "Well, that's it I guess."

"Not quite the turn out I expected." Claire admits. "Anyway, who's ass do I have to beat in pool?" 

"Joseph." Jill answers. "He's been talking up quite the shit-storm."

Alcohol makes her hyper, beer makes her sleepy. Claire doesn't realize this until she's reached the bottom of her third and has won four games against Joseph and Brad who can't take a loss like a man. Chris is up next: head down, butt out, setting up his next shot she can already tell is going to be a scratch. She yawns into her shoulder. 

"Any day now." She says. Sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth, he shoots and scatters a few of the billiard balls across the green felt. None of them even go near any of the pockets.

"How do you suck this bad?" Jill says, sitting on a stool near the end of the table. "Especially when she's so good."

"Genetics." Claire offered with a smirk. "He's got shaky hands." 

"He's a sharp shooter." 

Claire shrugs. "Maybe you should move him to a different position."

"I can hear you two." Chris grunts. "And it's your turn, Claire."

"Aren't you tired of this brutal ass whooping?" Claire sets up her shot. Solid blue about five inches from the left quarter pocket; perfect shot. It takes her three seconds to pot it. 

Chris downs his beer. "Fuck it. You win."

She shrugs and proceeds to pot a solid red. "Suit yourself." 

"I want another beer. Jill?" Chris holds his cue stick out to her. "Try your hand?"

"Why not." She takes the stick and Chris leaves for the bar. 

"He didn't leave you in a good place." Claire walks around the table, looking for another good shot. She doesn't find any so she sets up on yellow near the center and hopes for the best. The ball hits the side. It's Jill's turn.

"So what's been going on?" Jill starts, aiming for an orange stripe to the right corner.   
Claire shrugs again. "Same old, I guess." 

"You still with that guy? Shane?" She pots the orange stripe.

"No." She answers, shaking her head. "I came to my senses."

"That's great." Jill goes for the green stripe. "He was a dick."

"I know." She gives a short, soft chuckle. "I guess we all have those at one point or another." 

"Glad you knew though." She pots the green stripe too. Finally, some competition. "Sometimes people don't realize they're in love with an asshole." Jill goes for the red stripe; a miss.

Claire goes for the solid burgundy one sitting in between the side pocket and the corner. 

"Found a new guy or are you going solo for now?" Jill asks.

She doesn't pot the burgundy this time in a slight hiccup. Her mind immediately goes back to Wesker. 

To the day, it had been two weeks. Two weeks of silence. No visits, no calls, and no dates. She should have expected this; the man looked every bit the player if she ever saw one. It didn't surprise her, it didn't make her angry. There was only a tinge of disappointment that came that was so easily pushed aside and ignored. The thought of him was still appealing, but only for aesthetics; she had no idea what he was truly like and it was oddly crass of her to believe that it would be like some kind of affair that makes it to cinema. Everyone knows instantaneous and true love only happens in cash-grabbing, formulaic Hollywood movies. She'll find someone else and she won't even go out looking for him. 

"I'm enjoying this newfound singular freedom." She says easily, feeling a warmness at the back of her neck. That's odd.

"That's the right idea. You're young. Enjoy it." Jill pots a blue stripe and immediately pots the cue. "Shit."

Grinning, Claire looks up toward the front of the bar. The door was slipping closed meaning the bar just got a little bit more crowded. She looks for Chris; he's taking too long with that beer. Scanning the crowd, she spots him there sitting on a bar stool but he isn't alone. Speak of the Devil.

"Claire." Jill catches her attention. "It's your shot."

He was standing there in his work clothes, STARS uniform in tip-top condition, talking to her brother. There was a grey folder in his hands and the tired look on his statuesque face was passive. The sunglasses weren't there over his eyes like before, but instead hung on the hem of his shirt. She tried to read his lips with no results.

"Earth to Claire?" Jill touched her shoulder. 

"Yeah yeah." Claire examines the table; purple, easy. She pots it just in time to see Chris take the folder from his hands. There's nothing left but the eight-ball but it's at an angle. She sets up without thinking, eyes still flitting up, before she shoots. To even her surprise, the ball hits the side, bounces and rolls into a pocket opposite the one she was aiming for. And that's the game.

"What the fuck?" Jill says to herself in surprise, staring down at the table. 

"Hey, Jill." She joins her at her side. Pointing at Chris and him, "who's that guy talking to Chris?"

"Hmm?" It takes her a second. "Oh, that's our Captain. Wesker. Why?"

"Just asking." She says it with a shrug to keep herself from seeming nothing more than just curious. 

"Didn't think he would come." Jill continues.

"Why?"

"He's an asshole." Jill says simply. "Keeps himself to himself except for bossing out orders and doling out reprimands." She looks at Claire who's looking at Wesker. "Don't tell me. You think he's hot?"

"I didn't say that." She gets defensive too quickly, she notices. 

"Don't bounce from one asshole to another, Claire." 

"Jesus, I'm not in love with him." 

"Steer clear, girl." Jill says. Claire watches as Wesker turns and heads for the door. Chris grabs his new beer and makes his way back, the folder in his hands.

"What do you got there, Champ?" Jill says once he returns. 

Chris sits on Jill's vacated stool. Holding up the folder, he says, "forgot to fill out a report. Got it personally delivered by Satan himself." 

"Don't you feel special." Jill pats him on the shoulder.

"Who won?" He asks. 

"Is that even a question?" Claire grins, and then hands him her cue. "Here, I want to get some air."

What amazes her is that when she gets outside, he's still out there. What doesn't though, is the fact that he's out of earshot and nearly a block away. She can only see his back as he walks toward his car and can't decide whether to let him be or call him back. Jill's words follow her out the door. Sticking her hands in her sweater pockets, she makes her decision.

__

* * *

 

 

Wesker could tell from the moment he stepped in the door that someone was in his house. There was a dim light coming from the livingroom that gave it away, along with the very faint scent of a woman's perfume. Instinctively, his hand goes to the holster still strapped to his hip, and he raises the gun without a second thought.  
He didn't necessarily live in a good neighborhood, not terrible but not great. Lately, there has been a string of burglaries so he wouldn't have been surprised if this was one such case. Furious, yes. Annoyed, sure. Surprised, not at all. His neighbors house was cased just the other night. 

Soft-footed even in his heavy work boots, he makes his way into the livingroom. The first thing he saw was the back of his black leather sofa, and then the TV stuck up on the wall in front of it that he didn't use; both were how he left it this morning. Quickly then, his eyes flitted to the armchair at the far corner of the room and felt a short, quiet sigh escape him.

"What are you doing here, Alex?" He holstered his handgun. 

The woman sitting in the armchair, dressed in an expensive white blouse and tight black leather pants, closed the book in her hands and smirked at him. "Is that any way to talk to your big sister?" 

"It's late-" He started undoing his belt to remove the holster.

"It's nearly eleven." She looks at the clock on the wall. "It isn't your bed time yet."

"I'm tired." Wesker set the holster down on the end table and pulled his shirt from his pants before sitting down on the sofa. As soon as he did, he felt a soreness in his body from a day sitting in his office, filling out report after report. It was a feeling worse than the one he got when he was on the beat, for STARS or otherwise. 

"You're getting old." Alex teased, biting gently on her tongue.

"I am not."

"Sure, sure." She looks down at the book in her lap. "You have shit taste in literature." 

"Why the fuck are you here?" He groaned irritably. "It can't just be to insult my tastes. That's Nietzsche, by the way." 

"I'm hurt." She puts a hand to her chest. "Why can't I just visit my adorable little brother without him interrogating me?" 

"At eleven at night?"

She nods, smiling a devious little smile.

"Fine." Wesker started to unbutton his shirt. "Mind if I get comfortable?"

"By all means." 

He nods and then gets up to go to his bedroom which was just a few doors away, past the dining room and kitchen, curtesy of his small one story rental. Stripping out of his STARS uniform, he replaces it with a white undershirt and a black pair of drawstring sweatpants. Usually he was really strict about his appearance but now with her, he couldn't care less. 

Returning back to the sofa, he runs his hands through his hair. "How are you?" He asks, his tone softening some. 

"Oh, now with the pleasantries?" She huffs. "I just came back from London. Had lunch with a nice scientist there. She says Reguvinere's been itching for some of Umbrella's leftovers."

"Leftovers?" 

"You know. The experiments no one's bothering with anymore." 

"What do they want with our sloppy seconds?" He rubs the back of his neck.

"God knows." She pauses, examining the multiple diamond rings on her fingers. "Anyhow, how's that woman? What's her name?" 

"Long gone." He sighs. "Very long gone."

"That's a shame. She made you happy." Alex looks at him out of the corner of her eye. If she went on, she was sure he'd kick her out. The subtly solemn look on his face told her that much. Such a testy subject; rightfully so. "Well, you're still young and handsome, Albert. I'm sure you'll find another girl that'll stitch up that broken heart of yours." 

"Yeah." He didn't sound so sure. "I might have."

"You might have?" She sounded genuinely surprised. "What does that mean? Are you seeing someone?"  
He shook his head. "It's over now."

Definitely surprised judging by the look on her face now. "What the fuck does that mean?" 

"It has occurred to me I may not be worthy of another's affections, considering my line of work."

"What the fuck does that mean?" She repeated.

"I just told you-"

"No. You wouldn't come to that conclusion on your own, you sappy bastard. Who told you you couldn't be in a relationship because of Umbrella?"

"I was talking with William-"

"Of course, therein lies your problem." She stood and reached over to him, giving him a good slap on the back of the head. "Stop listening to what that idiotic man-child has to say. Everyone deserves someone and you are no exception." Her hands found her hips. She was his sister but now apparently she was his mother.

"Is that what you came here for? To lecture me in a strange after school special?"

"It's my job." She sits on the sofa next to him. Putting a hand on his shoulder, "who was she, love?"

He doesn't answer right away, not because he has any particular desire to be dramatic but because he truly did not know what that beautiful redhead means to him- meant to him. "Her name was Claire. Nothing serious. One date, that was all."

"And why is that all?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"I'm not in love. I barely know her. She doesn't mean a thing to me, Alex. Just another woman who has come and gone."

"Your emotional constipation brings a tear to my eye. It's actually quite sad."

"And it's time for you to go." He stands and gestures to the door. "After you."

Rolling her eyes, she stands and the click of her heels against the tiled floor hammers into his head as a migraine begins to set in. When she's standing on his stoop, she turns to him again. "You need to call her." She says firmly.

"Why?" He leans against the wood door. 

"Because you're a cold bastard and no matter how many women you get in your bed, it will never be warm enough for you in the morning." 

"Goodnight, Alexandra." He says, moving to shut the door. "Drive safe."

"Goodnight, darling. Enjoy your constant, self-inflicted state of solitary." She pecks him on the cheek. "Let's do lunch this week."

 

* * *

 

His bedroom door creaks open, it's never made the sound before. Despite living alone, he doesn't immediately jump up and investigate. As still as a statue, his eyes open and he sees a figure walking in front of him in the dark. Gracefully, cat-like. There's a soft collapse on the empty side of the bed where she climbs on top. A lithe form inching ever closer while he lies still. Not afraid, curious. Not angered, comforted. Her body drapes over his, the blanket being the only thing keeping her skin from his. She leans close, the breath rolls off her lips and lays flat on his parted mouth. The scent of her, like rich cherries, intoxicates and blinds until all he can fully comprehend is the feel of her pressing down on his muscles. He touches her but can't grasp and grab. Her body like silk falling from his fingers or like water just passing through. He wants to touch her, to hold her, but he can't. It's as if the world doesn't want him to. She leans down closer, her arms on either side of his head, until it's not just breath they share but each other's smooth and soft lips. It's a kiss so unfulfilling, so desperate that he sits up. Her legs wrap around his waist and he's on top of her. He needs to feel something, anything, because she's here with him and it can't be. It can't be like this where he's touching her but can't feel her. He grasps at her hair only for it to fall through his fingers. Gasping, he parts from her. Looking down, she begins to disappear. Her face becomes translucent, and she fades and fades until there is nothing left. Until there is nothing but his white bed sheets that he's staring down at. Until, again, he is alone.

His dream remains in perfect clarity when he awakes the next morning. Odd.

 

* * *

 

 

Leave it to Claire to forget her work camera in the back of Jill's car. And leave it to her to only remember she forgot her work camera in the back of Jill's car the next morning over a bowl of Lucky Charms and halfway through a rerun of Will and Grace while she has to be at work in an hour with pictures of Alejandro Blades knocking out a tenth grader. So:

"Shit!" She jumps up from the couch, nearly spilling milk all over the white button up shirt she was forced to iron, and reaches for the nearest phone. And:

"Hello?" Jill still sounded a little groggy. She had went home with Chris so she's probably tired from all the physical activities that that entails. 

"Hey, it's Claire." She says into the receiver, trying to both hold the phone to her ear and turn off the TV at the same time. "I left my camera in the back seat of the Jeep." And she almost spills the milk again as she picks the bowl up from the coffee table. 

There's a pause. "Oh, that sucks."

"Yeah. Can I come pick it up?"

"Of course but I have to be at work in fifteen minutes."

"I thought you started at ten." She pauses at the door with her keys in her hand. 

"Yeah but the Captain's making us come in early for drills." Claire can hear a car door closing shut in the background. "Oh, yeah. I see your camera bag." Another pause and something muffles in the background. "Chris says hi." 

"Hi Chris." She's out the door in record time. "I'll meet you guys at the station."

One train ride later sees Claire standing outside of the police station waiting for a green Jeep Sports Cherokee to come around the corner. Her stomach was feeling weird because the milk she had with her cereal was a little off and she blames it on that instead of the fact that she's been looking at the shiny black BMW sitting on the curb in front of her. Oh yes. She and that shiny black BMW got to know each other quite well. Okay, in honesty, it wasn't the car that was bugging her out. If it was here then it's owner was probably in the station, and bumping into him wasn't something she wanted to do. So there she stood, her foot tapping anxiously against the concrete, waiting for Jill in her green Jeep Sports Cherokee, having to be at work in thirty minutes.   
And then it appears from around that corner in all it's sporty glory. Her foot stops tapping and she pushes off the gate she's been leaning against. She walks over to the street, toes of her shoes on the curb, just as Jill slows and pulls over. Chris is in the front passenger seat and greets her with a sleepy smile.

"Hey-a sis." His voice was scratchy. 

"Hey, bro." She replies, leaning into the window. 

Jill leans over Chris. "I got to go find parking. Meet us inside." 

The Jeep pulls away. She sucks her teeth and squints at the Jeep as it disappears around the corner at the end of the street. Now she was going to be late for work.

The station outside was an intimidating mansion-like structure made of white brick and steel. Inside, it had marble, or at least faux marble, floors and white plastered walls. It was pearl on the inside. Pretty like a museum. 

Claire trailed along the front steps inside the foyer, walking back and forth, hands in her jeans pockets. It had only been a few minutes but she was staring up at the clock stuck to the wall behind the front desk as if it owed her something. Her boss was a prude when it came to punctuality; she was late once before and nearly went back to filing paperwork and taking calls. That was a learning experience.

"My bad, Claire-y." Comes Jill from behind her. She turns around to see Jill and Chris coming up the stairs, an apologetic look on her face and a black camera bag slung over her shoulder. 

"Don't worry about it." Jill hands her the bag and she takes it. "I got to go. See you later."

"Same bar, same time?" Chris asks.

"Absolutely." Claire sticks her thumb up as she walks to the door. 

Checking the raspberry-colored watch strapped to her wrist, a gift from Dylan of course, she doesn't pay attention to where she's going. What- who - she runs into as a result of inattention in classic Claire fashion firmly cements her belief that the universe is just a playground bully that loves to pick on the Redfield children. 

"Oh." Came the reply from the human wall she just ran nose first into. 

Claire somehow knows who it is before she even looks up. "Oh."

"Claire." 

"You." 

Wesker has his hand on his chest, where she had just headbutted him, and was looking at her with a most unreadable expression. "Me."

"Oh." Claire felt like she had just been caught doing something bad, but she didn't know why. 

He was quiet for a moment, looking at her, and then he spoke. "Been arrested again?"

"Sorry." She scoffs, slightly offended. "Not today."

Wesker knew the moment he woke up this morning that he wasn't going to have a good day. It was a feeling, something rattling his bones and not in the good way. He was drowsy and he woke up before his alarm went off. He spilled hot coffee all over his fake marble counter top and he jammed his right pinky toe on the metal leg of his bed frame. The words coming out of his mouth then were sure to send a mother rolling in her grave. Surely an angel would drop dead in the presence of such a filthy mouth. On the freeway in the car, he encountered a particular sticky lane of traffic, some asshole in a Range Rover tailgating him for a few miles, and a teenager that kept cutting him off. And now here he was, standing in front of the one person he wasn't ready to see. 

"What are you doing here, then?" He asks, because it is the only thing he can do. 

"Picking up something from my friend." She gestures to the camera bag sitting on her hip. "What's it to you?"

"It's not everyday I bump into the same girl in the police station that has no business in a police station." 

Claire shrugs. "We have common interests." 

He shakes his head. "I don't have an inane desire to be incarcerated." 

"Okay, dick." She sighs. "My brother works here. Did you forget?" 

"Oh yeah. The other Redfield." He tries to keep the distaste out of his voice. "I honestly don't see a relation, in my opinion." 

"That sucks. Anyway." She goes to move around him. "I have to go."

He was about to reach out for her when he stops himself. "Wait, Claire." 

She stops then and looks at him with a waiting expression, an expectant look that said 'what do you want?'

"It's nice to see you again." He says quietly, in a way that seemed so much unlike him. He hated the way that sounded.

She bites her lip, trying to gauge the honesty in his eyes. It seemed like it was there; his stone face seemed genuine enough. Still, she couldn't figure out what to say in response. How could she explain that she too was glad to see him and was annoyed as hell at the same time?

"Well," She begins in a sigh. "Why didn't you call?" It sounds petty coming from her which annoyed her more, but it was on her mind for a while.

"I didn't want to impose on you." He answers.

"It's been two weeks. I mean, if our situation was different, I wouldn't care but-"

"What is our situation?" He asks, genuinely confused.

A man coming through the door wearing a black RC Raccoon's ball cap and sweater with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder distracts her for a moment as he comes through the door. 

"Nothing." She attempts to wave it off. "Just thought you were interested, that's all."

"What makes you think I am not interested?"

"It's been awhile since you've even talked to me. Usually that means one thing."

"Claire-"

She notices the man in the ball cap rush behind him and back out of the door. It was then when she saw his face; square jaw, five o'clock shadow, half of a Glasgow smile. He pulled down slightly on the bill of his hat before he had pushed his way out the door. He didn't have the duffle bag with him. Claire wasn't the type to create whole world's and situations based on over thinking and radical assumptions but there was just something wrong with that. 

"The bag." She says and Wesker looks at her with confusion.

"What?"

"That guy looked really shady and he came in with a bag." She says, scanning the station for it. "He didn't take it with him."

"What did he look like?"

"He was wearing a black hoodie and a Racc's hat."

He began to do the same and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, suddenly anxious. There'd been a few bomb threats in the last few months alone that had all turned out to be bullshit except for one that went off in an abandoned steel mill in the hills. He rubs the back of his neck and spots the bright red fire alarm on the wall. That would be the easiest way to evacuate the building. 

"You need to get out." He says calmly even though urgency has sparked his heart rate. 

Claire mumbles something incoherent and he reaches for the fire alarm. The following noise was sharp and overwhelming and she found it stabbing inside her skull as she pushed through the doors. 

If she were to dress it up, she'd say it was mayhem when everyone in the station met down the street. Everyone was supposed to calm and composed, filing out one by one and listening quietly and patiently for instructions. There was none of that. People are easy to panic and someone let slip the word bomb and that was it.   
She was lost in the crowd, tiptoeing to try to see Chris or Jill in the sea of people. The police were pushing people back, trying to get them to move faster, as the bomb disposal unit rushed in. She couldn't find Wesker; he had went to do his job, get people out. She had long since forgotten about her own job and the camera bag against her side seemed to have disappeared as all the commotion made her forget all about it. 

Dark hair catches her attention, moving back into the building. 

"Chris." She mumbles under her breath, pushing past people back toward the building. The street was filled now and multiple policemen were trying to guide the growing crowd down the street. She was like a fish trying to swim upstream against the current. How she manages to slip through between officers is a wonder considering everything going on, but there she is, slipping back through the front door calling out her brother's name. As irrational as it was, she needed to go in and find him, drag him out. Claire knows Chris would do the same. It's not even a question. 

She just needs to know that he's not in danger. It's been like that for years, ever since their mother and father died. After all, without each other, what would they do? 

"Claire!" A growl flowed through her ear and sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing while she felt a pressure on her arm. Turning, she sees Wesker. Who else would it be? "What are you doing in here?" 

"Chris-"

He grabs her hand and pulls her back toward the front door. "He went back outside. We need to go."

Her feet follow easily and without her consciously aware of it, her hand tightens around his. For a moment, his did the same. They were almost out the door when it suddenly grew quiet. She heard a pulse and he pushed her forward, knees landing solid against the concrete. Then in an instant, the world was as loud as it was at birth, ringing in her ears.


	5. Golden Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raw, unbeta'd, unedited.

_I know a girl with the golden touch_  
_She's got enough, she's got too much_  
_But I know, you wouldn't mind_  
_You could have it all if you wanted_  
_You could have it all if it mattered so much_

 

The bomb goes off at exactly ten thirty AM on that beautiful Friday morning. Luckily the building was completely evacuated before it had detonated. Well, almost completely. At ten fifty-one, an officer is wheeled into the emergency room of St. Lucas Memorial Hospital with a head injury and is reported to be unresponsive. A woman comes in with him, refusing to leave his side, and is escorted into the waiting room. There, she paces, phone in hand, asking about him every few minutes. Finally, at exactly twelve noon, she is told that the officer is in stable condition and is allowed to see him.

If this were a happy story, one of convenience and one that contains a little magic or luck, than the officer would have been awake, alive and well, when she walks into his room. However, this is not a story of convenience or magic, and that officer is neither awake nor well when she enters that room, but he is alive. Suppose that's the luck in all this mess.

She's visibly shaken when she sees him. Head bandaged and pale, unconscious in an unflattering hospital gown with tubes coming out of his mouth. He doesn't look as much alive, but not dead. He was somewhere in an in between state, perhaps comatose would be the right word to use. She's not sure what she should do, standing a few feet away, wanting to touch him but feeling like she shouldn't. Like it wasn't her place to. As if she would touch him and feel his skin so cold and so hard, like stone, that she would never bring warmth back to her fingers. As if she would touch him and make things worse. After all, it was her fault that he was lying in this bed now.

The nurse comes in to check his vitals, to make sure everything was where it was needed and she gives her a comforting smile.

"He'll be fine once he wakes up." She says, and the idea seems so far fetched when he's lying there looking like a corpse.

"What's wrong with him?" She asks, because the doctor didn't tell her once she left the room. Another emergency call.

"Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Some internal bleeding, a little swelling of the brain." The nurse notices the horrified look on her face. "It sounds terrible but we've dealt with this kind of situation before and the patient was back to normal within months. There was only a minor hiccup in motor functions but they lived and they went on with their lives normally."

"Sorry if that's a little hard to believe." She sighs.

"It's understandable." The nurse touches her arm to offer comfort. “Is he your husband?”

She laughs, in a tired and forced way. “No.”

“Oh. Boyfriend?”

She opens and closes her mouth quickly, not sure what to say. “He's a friend.”

“Well, your friend is going to be just fine.” The nurse says, squeezing her arm gently, comfortingly. Instead of relief washing over her, Claire just stands there. It wasn’t worry that came to her mind next. She wondered why a squeeze on the arm was as comforting as it was and why it had settled the thoughts racing through her head as the nurse left. Why her hands no longer shook when she looks at him in his still, silent state, when he looks like death.

It was hours later when Chris and Jill showed up. The look on their faces when they saw Claire there with their captain would have been priceless except for the obvious. They didn’t question at first, but Chris kept looking at her with confusion as the doctor came in and explained the situation. When the rest of the team, along with Chief of Police Brian Irons, to check on him Claire watched from down the hall.

Her phone lit up with too many missed calls and unread messages from her boss, her friends at work, both Chris _and_ Jill which together is never a good sign, and Dylan. The bombing was probably all over the afternoon news by now. An injured officer always makes headlines, especially in a situation like this. Especially when a civilian, when she, is the only reason he's alive. Breathing at least. Brain injury or not, he is breathing.

 

A week goes by then, and she visits a whopping three times when she knows Chris and Jill and the rest of the team won't be there. She doesn't know why she bothers when all things considered. Perhaps it's because every time she does there's a glimmer of hope that today might be the day he's up and awake and she can say how sorry she is for putting him in this situation. Imagine that conversation: _“sorry you were put into a coma.”_

The fourth time she goes to see him, it's almost the end of visiting hours. She figures it's better this way when no one would be there and she could just check to see if he were awake, just to see if he were doing better. Might as well at this point, what with hearing his name on the news, from Dylan, from Chris and Jill in an almost casual conversation about how the station was so different now in their captain's absence. Hell, even her boss wouldn't shut up about him, calling him today's hero. He was all over the news on that first day, and then the second, then third. By the end of the week, the captain was becoming a household name. So here she is on her fourth visit, contemplating the situation in the elevator on the way to the floor he was on.

Her boss knows she was at the explosion with Wesker; it was the only excuse for missing work. Good for him since now he has someone that witnessed it first hand: a survivor. And there's nothing better than a survivor's perspective. It's what sells copies. Good for her in theory since now she can show how good she can be at her job.

The elevator dings, the doors open into a white hall with shiny pastel blue tiles. She walks out and turns left almost automatically; she's memorized the turns of the halls on her second visit. He has his own room at the end of the hall in the Intensive Care Unit. It's nice, for a hospital room. There's a giant window overlooking a small park and a personal bathroom. Someone has even been leaving flowers on the sink. They're always different: colors and shapes, sitting in different but always expensive looking vases. Claire never understood why all the flowers smelled the same.

And here he is, lying in a hospital bed with his head covered in bandages and a tube coming out of his mouth. _Not as bad as it looks._ It’s probably the most positive yet ridiculous thing that could have been spoken by the nurse and it gnaws at her brain. How could it ever? He _does_ look a bit better though despite it all. The cuts on his face were healed to pink slivers and the bruises were fading into shades of yellow. Yes then. Perhaps it was not as bad as it looked. The breathing tube in his throat still suggested otherwise.

She stops in front of the sink, close to the door. Someone had left a fresh vase of Japanese peace lilies on the counter, seven soft looking white flowers sprouting from the flourish of green leaves, adding color to the room and a certain sophistication in the array of bouquets in pinks and reds unfitting for a man such as him. One unfortunate batch that had been pushed to the back of the counter behind a larger bouquet had died, it’s flowers brown and withered. She sighs, pushing her camera bag behind her back and walks toward the counter. Pushing the healthy flowers aside, she picks up the dead one.

“Are people in your city always so sentimental?”

Claire almost drops the glass vase. Turning, she sees a woman sitting in the armchair in the corner by the window, strategically placed out of sight from the doorway. She was an older woman by maybe ten years or so. Beautiful in a regal sort of way, blonde hair and fair skin. She wore a red blouse that looked more expensive than Claire's own wardrobe, and dark form fitting pants with heels.

“I'm sorry?” Claire replies quietly after a moment.

“No one my brother knows would send him flowers. They're all from strangers.”

_Brother?_

“But I suppose, considering he's a _hero_ ,” she put emphasis on the word, as if she didn't like how it sounded. “It's expected that people all over the city would show a little gratitude.”

Claire looks at the dead bouquet in her hands.

“I brought the peace lilies. He's rather fond of them, ironically.” She gets up from the chair, one long leg swinging over the other; _god, she's tall._ And as she's walking to the door, she says, “do me a favor and make sure they get water and sun but not too much. Thank you, nurse.”

“I'm not a nurse.” She blurts out without thinking.

“Oh?” She pauses in front of her. “Then who might you be?”

Claire is silent. What the fuck _was_ she? “I'm a, uh, friend of his.”

“My brother doesn't have friends.” She retorts. “Especially not ones as pretty as you are.” She begins to study Claire's face. Suddenly, she raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Is your name Claire?”

“How did you know?”

“One and one makes two, darling.” She reaches out and touches a strand of hair that had fallen against her right shoulder. “You are beautiful.”

Claire freezes.

“I don't bite, dear. But my brother does as I'm sure you've figured out by now.” A smirk graces her red lips. “He's taken by you, did you know?”

“Taken?”

“Of course, he'll never admit to it but he quite fancies you. Do you fancy him?”

Her mouth opens and closes as she looks for the words, heat filling her cheeks.

“I suppose it's none of _my_ business but I can hope.” She let's go of Claire's hair. “I must be going then.” The sound of her heels on the floor fill the air as she leaves but on the threshold, she turns and looks back again. “My name is Alex. I hope we'll meet again in time. Ciao, dear.”

And then she's alone. Alone with a man in a coma and dead flowers still in her hands. The regular ambiance of a hospital the only sound she hears. Shaking off the heat that had warmed her cheeks, she tosses the vase in the trash outside. She checks her phone. Another text from Chris. She slips the phone back in her jeans pocket. He'd been hovering ever since the bomb. Maybe it's only natural but he was acting more like her father rather than her older brother which she found annoying. Back inside, she sits in the armchair, which had no warmth despite the fact that it had someone sitting in it just moments before.

Her visits are short and quiet; she doesn't speak to him like other people might have. But she'll sit there, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the idea of him waking up suddenly playing in the back of her head. It'd be nice if he did. Perhaps it's just the guilt that has her sitting here, wishing he would magically get better. Claire rubs her temples.

“Alright.” She says, her voice breaking the quiet. “You need to go ahead and wake up.” She stands and walks to his side. “Wherever you are, just come back. Please.”

Every word seems silly to her. The man's in a coma. She sighs at herself. It's about time she left anyway. Before she does, though, she touches his face with her fingertips. His skin is warm despite the paleness, and she can feel his cheekbone. She moves her fingers up to touch the bandage, noticing a few strands of his blond hair had fallen out from underneath. She touches it, remembering how soft it was. Then she pulls away. Leaning down, she kisses his forehead. It's not something she had done before during her visits. She pulls back again and then leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

With a song, standing beside the crowd and not in it, Claire can see in terrible sobriety how one can fall in love. In this day and age, it's fleeting, temporary. It's a woman and a man, or a woman and a woman or a man and a man, anything in between, and a feeling. It's in the eyes: _‘look at me. Keep looking at me. Love me’_. All very selfish and greedy. She sees it in Dylan, she sees it the girl she bumped into on the way in, in the man standing at the bar. It's in the dance they share, the way they touch each other's bodies, the way they drink, the way they kiss.

She can see it in herself weeks ago when she met him here. At the bar, with another man's love growing stale and bitter on her tongue. She didn't feel it at first, didn't want the attention but getting it anyway even in the faintest of ways. He was distant, almost brutally so but on the way home she fell in love with the way his body felt hard and strong against hers. In bed, she fell for the way his lips trailed like fire up and down her skin, burning and teasing. She fell for the way he looked at her the second time, the third, the fourth, the last. She fell for it all. And now he's not around.

She wants a drink to avoid the eye contact from every guy that can see her out of their periphery. She needs a distraction that would keep her from searching the crowd, her heart skipping at every blond she sees. There's one now, coming ever closer. His face in the shadows with a gait similar to a predator that can't fit it's paws quite right. It's alluring, but she sidesteps against the wall to get away. He follows.

She wants him to go away but she's lying to herself, she thinks. With his height and build, he's a worthy substitute, if only for the night. She's near the bathrooms now, she can't even see Dylan anymore, where the lights sort of fades away into darkness and the music can be felt in vibrations on the wall. She knows that people hide away here to fuck, make out, do drugs, fade out. He probably does to. And then he's there, pinning her against the wall and leaning in slowly. A whisper flushes hot against her neck, asking for permission and vaguely she thinks how strangely comforting and odd it is given their current position but she mumbles a _yes_ and kisses his neck, his jaw, his mouth. He _feels_ similar but there's something different. He smells like cheap cologne and soap and sweat. He tastes like beer and vodka, not scotch, and another woman's lipstick. His hair, when she reaches up to grab it, is short and a bit coarse. He touches her greedily, clumsily, kissing her sloppily at the same time. She can feel his inexperience and how drunk he most likely is. She's suffocating. He pulls away and she can see his eyes, dark with pupils the size of dinner plates. His jaw is all wrong, stubble making his face rough against her touch. His chest is big and hard against her own. Hands on her hips, he's pressed so close that she can feel the semi he's got going on, he probably doesn't even know.

“What's your name?” He asks breathless. His voice is light, not deep enough.  

“What's yours?” She replies, trying to search for hints of him on his body, not really caring.

“Corey.”

She can see his love in his eyes. Drug-induced, momentary, lustful. Hers is cold, dissatisfied. All she has to do is love him for the moment, that'll do it. That's all she needs.

“Wanna get out of here?”

_Say no._

She slips out of his grip and fixes her dress. Despite the stirring between her legs, she says it. He follows, not touching but still close.

“That's a shame.”

She kisses him again, growing tolerant of how different he tastes.

“We can stay right here.” His words die in her mouth. She lets him pin her against the wall again. He's gentle this time, almost sobering. His thumb hooks under her chin and he kisses her slowly, even though she's biting his lip. His hands travel down and rest on her hips where the tips of his fingers tease the hem of her dress. Just this reminds her of the way another pair of hands had hiked up her dress and nearly ripped her underwear away. And it’s this, this difference, this cautiousness, this clumsiness, that turns her off. His kiss is hot but in a sticky, sweaty way. It's not fire. It doesn't leave her burning for more even as he trails down her neck toward her chest. It's really more of an inconvenience if anything.

“Stop.” Two hands on his chest makes him still. “I have to go home.”

“I'll come with you.” He sounds a little too hopeful.

She shakes her head, pushing him away slowly. “I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“My husband wouldn't like that.” Claire starts to walk away, toward the crowd. “Besides, I don't want you to wake my three-year old.”

The look on his face was pathetic, immature. It was that of a spoiled child who just got his favorite toy taken away. Surprisingly, he doesn't spit venom to her back as she makes her way out of the dark little hall. _Bitch. Tease. Slut._ Shot straight to her back as if that same tongue hadn't been down her throat just seconds before. But no, he was quiet and just watched her leave, maybe or maybe not left with a bruised ego. He's attractive, he's forward yet understanding of the boundaries of others; he'll find someone else. Unfortunately for him, though, it won’t be her.

Dylan sits at the bar, alone for once, as she walks up. “I’m going home.” She tells him.

He swirls what's in the glass in his hand before downing it. “I’ll walk you home.”

“No need.” She waves him off and shoves past a drunk man getting irate at the bartender.

“Not a question.” Dylan mumbles as he pushes past the guy.

The outside air is chilly for the season. The booze provided a warm safety and Claire had had enough to not feel the chill down her back but Dylan didn't and he felt it the moment he stepped outside. When he did, Claire had already made it halfway down the street. Jogging to catch up, he touches the small of her back just to get her attention. She jumps at the contact.

“Whoa, hey.” He backs away a little. “Just me.”

“Hey, sorry.” She looks at him a little longer in the lamplight, maybe to make sure but then she hands him her purse. “Hold this for a sec.”

As they keep walking, she pulls her hair up into a ponytail.

“So I saw you go into the hole with that guy.” Dylan starts. “You two were looking pretty close. What happened?”

She reaches for her purse, but he waves her off. “I realized he wasn't really my type.”

“You have a type?” He laughs.

“Yeah.” She answers. “Anyone but that guy. Corey.”

“Mm. And not attractive older police officers?”

“Captain.” Claire says. “He's a captain.”

“So I'm right?”

“About?”

“About you being so smitten and lovelorn that a casual encounter will not satiate the restless little vixen hiding within you.”

She side eyes him. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs. “Just a little one night stand-”

“Three nights.” She holds up three fingers for emphasis.

“Right, three nights. This three night stand is hitting you a little hard. It’s kind of worrying.”

“Why is it worrying?”

“Well, for starters. When you met the guy, you weren’t in a very good place, were you? Is that fair to say?”

She shrugs. “That’s fair.”

He continues, they stop at a busy crosswalk. “Alright, and then you fall in with this guy for a week. Then he goes silent for a few and you meet up with him completely coincidentally right?”

“It’s like you’re narrating my life but yeah.”

“Okay.” He pauses for a moment as he looks both ways when they cross. “And then the precinct goes boom and he gets knocked into a coma.”

“It was medically induced but go on.”

“So here's my theory and hear me out.” He pauses for a moment. “Your emotions left over from Shane are being added to the new romantic emotions you feel for this guy. Making them extra strong.”

“Okay, not to sound like a bitch but wrong. That’s not right.”

“Well it _was_ a theory.”

“No, here’s what it is.” They finally make it to their building, shiny bright light leaked onto the concrete sidewalk, completely sobering them both, even if they already felt awake and alert. Dylan opens the glass door for her, Tom greets them both. At the elevator, she continues. “I liked the guy. I won’t deny that. Hell, I still do.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” The elevator dings and the doors open, they step inside.

“But you want to know what gets me?”

“I do.”

“It’s the fact that he’s in the hospital now, in a coma, and I’m perfectly fine.” She presses the button for their floor. Number fourteen lights up beautifully. “Not a damn scratch on my body.”

Dylan lays his head against the wall, watching as the numbers increase on the button panel. “Some would call that lucky and be thankful.”

“I’m glad I’m okay. It’s the fact that he would have been too had it not been for me.” She sighs.

“It’s not your fault. He was just doing his job.” The doors open at fourteen.

“That’s what I keep telling myself.” They walk to their apartment door at the end of the hall. “Your keys or mine?”

He’s already got his keys in hand. At the door, when he’s unlocking it, Claire laughs stiffly, softly, tiredly.

“What?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“The guy in the club was named Corey.” He urges her to continue. “That’s what I called the captain. First time I met him.”

“Why Corey?”

She points to her temple. “Sunglasses at night.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Good morning, darling.”

The voice that followed his first glimpse at the sunlight could have been anyone. His mother, if only he remembered what she sounded like. His first lover, the one that stole his heart if only it held the bitter tang he had come to know so well. His sister, then. Yes, of course.

“Albert?”

Eyes blurry, “Alex?”

The fairer Wesker stood from her chair near the window and came to the side of the bed. “Oh good. You still remember my name.”

“How could I forget?” He licks his dry lips and attempts to blink the heaviness out of his eyes. “Usually your name is followed by a sinking feeling in my stomach.”

“Oh.” She _tsks_ and pouts, touching his forehead with her palm, her fine red nails contrasting with his complexion, now slightly pale, and his beautiful blond hair. “How are you feeling, love?”

“Fucking awful.” He groans, now feeling the dull pain striking through his head and the slight nausea that was coming on now. “How long have I been here?”

“Six years tomorrow. We were planning to end the life support. The thought of you wasting away in here was becoming too much.”

“Fuck you.” He replies without malice. He attempts to readjust his position in the bed.

“A week.” She says seriously.

He winces as one move of his neck sends a sharp pain to the bottom of his skull. “Damn.”

“Take it easy. You just came out of a coma. Attempt to crawl before you start trying to run.”

He pulls himself into a sitting position. “I hate being idle.”

“Even in death?” She sighs, but then returns to the chair to pull it closer.

Wesker becomes quiet, taking in the room and slowly himself. He stares, eyes a vibrant blue that contrasted strikingly with his skin and his hair, at the tubes running out from underneath the medical tape on his arms. The gown he wouldn’t be caught dead in otherwise doesn’t even get a reaction out of him. His hand rises up slowly, not in fear or trepidation, but something else entirely, almost in cautious curiosity she’d seen in him when they were children. He touches the back of his head, shaven, the rest of his hair a mess, and feels the stitches there. The nurse had taken the bandage off the day before.

“What happened?” He asks finally, running his fingers up and down.

Alex watches and doesn’t answer immediately. “Well, officially, someone planted a bomb in a restroom. Unofficially, for your ears and mine, someone very high up is very angry with you.”

“Of course.” He lets his hand fall into his lap. “ _Reguvinere_?”

“Umbrella, actually.” She says matter-of-factly.

“Umbrella?” And for once, he’s surprised. She nods. “Why?”

“How would you expect me to know?”

“Because no matter what, you always know everything.”

“I’m glad you noticed.” She smiles slightly. “I do believe it was someone named Lorne. Off the books, non-business related.”

“That little shit.”

“Oh yes.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have that little bastard’s head on a plate.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“There always is.” He points to his head and smirks. “Always.”

“You be careful going back.” She says seriously, in a tone fit for a mother. “Now more than ever.”

“Yes, ma’am.” And they’re quiet again. Wesker takes in his surroundings again, looking displeased. Alex gives him time but something was tugging at her mind.

“So,” verbally she steps around it, testing the waters. “I met a certain someone when you were out of commision.”

“Oh?”

“Pretty little thing. Beautiful hair. Little young but tragically mature.”

“Alex-”

“It was her wasn’t it?”

He sighs and stares into his lap, but then he chuckles. “She was here?”

“Oh yes.” She smiles. “Now go on. Tell me about her.”

“That girl.” He says under his breath. “Just a girl.”

“Never just a girl. Not with that look in your eye at the mere mention of her.”

“I don’t know.” He says truthfully. “She’s different.”

“Cliche.”

He shrugs then. “I know, but she is. I actually felt, for those few moments when I was with her, alive. Something I haven’t felt in a while. Not since-” He trails off.

“Leave the past in the past. If you learn anything from this little experience, let it be to live presently. Be in the now.” She stands and picks up her purse.

“Where are you going?” He asks.

“I have some business I need to tend to before the day is done.” She smiles. “I’ll be back later but-” She goes over to the small dresser to the left of him where his personal items were bagged and stored. His phone lays at the top of it. Handing it to him, “don’t disappoint me and not call her. Poor thing has been worried sick.”

“And if I don’t?” He says as she checks herself in the mirror.

She looks at him in the reflection. “Then I will. She’s gorgeous and I don’t see why you get the beautiful ones with all things considered.”

“All things considered?”

“Well darling, in short, you can be quite an asshole.” She turns and leans in to kiss him on the forehead. “Sometimes you don’t see it.”

“Like you’re any better.” He mutters.

“I’ll let the nurse know you’re awake.”

 

* * *

 

 

His doctor tells him he’ll be on bed rest for at least a week more but by the time he finishes his sentence, he’s already reaching for the tubes attaching him to the machines. Doctor Hendricks, visibly startled, attempts to stop him only to go pale when Wesker manages to easily pull the needles out.

“Queasy, doctor?” He asks with a grin.

“Didn’t that hurt?”

“Not very much no.”

“Well.” Hendricks clears his throat. “We’ll have to run some more tests before we can release you. Make sure there were no long lasting effects.”

“I don’t think that’ll be possible.”

The good doctor was a short man, robust in the middle under his white coat, and had a hairline that had already headed for the hills some time ago, but he had a gentle face. He looked to be the kind of man one would go gracefully into retirement next to, one that would save lives, raise children, and tend to a modest vegetable garden. He thinks the doctor would’ve been a respectable end to his life.

“You don’t think you’re recovery would be possible?” The doctor says, a greying eyebrow raised.

“I come from a long line of quick healers.” Wesker put his feet over the side of the bed, careful not to expose anything beneath the poor excuse of a gown he had on. “I’m already feeling ninety-five percent at the very least. I would like to ride the rest of it out in the comfort of my own home.”

“That’s understandable but say something happened to you at home. And if you live alone that could be problematic, don’t you think?”

“I won’t be alone, doctor. My sister will be staying with me.”

Hendricks pauses, wheels spinning in his head as he considers Wesker. “I wouldn’t suggest it.”

Wesker looks up at him, something in his eyes told him that he didn’t particularly care for him.

“But I suppose it would be alright only if we perform a few more tests today to ensure everything is in working order.”

“Understandable.” He stands and for a moment he staggers unsteadily as the blood rushes to his head. Sighing, he pauses to balance himself. Hendricks, on instinct, reaches out to help steady him but then retracts his hand almost immediately. He knew Wesker’s type; they didn’t necessarily appreciate friendly assistance.

“Alright there?” He asks instead.

“Fine.” Wesker runs a hand over his face before moving toward the drawers.

“I understand you want to get back to your life as soon as possible, but it would do you good to just take it slow for a while.”

“A slow pace doesn't fit within my lifestyle, doctor.” He opens the drawer then and is surprised by what he finds. Two pairs of t-shirts, one black and one white, sit folded neatly next to a pair of jeans.

“Your sister brought over a fresh set of clothes.” Dr. Hendricks says. “The uniform you came in with was pretty messed up. She took those home.”

“I see. Well, if you excuse me.” He says it as politely as he can. “I’d really like to be in my own clothes again.”

Dr. Hendricks nods once and walks away, closing the door to the room as he leaves. Getting dressed, as mundane and easy as he knew it to be, began to feel tedious and straining. He had never felt his muscles more tensed or more sore than they were now, especially the ones in his shoulders. He can't remember the accident, but going by this he is certain he is lucky to be alive right now. Getting his jeans on was a task similar but not limited to any of the hand to hand combats he’s engaged in with or without his badge in terms of difficulty and pain but he gets it done. He’s not the kind who lets his own mortal pain stop him from doing anything, especially putting on his own clothes. He picks the white shirt, which contrasts to his usual color pallet but he could do with a slight change in the norm. He finds his shoes on a closet shelf, other belongings in a clear plastic bag near it. Car keys, wallet, sunglasses, badge…

For some reason, he glances at the bed and pauses. It's not a feeling of sentimentality that he experiences then, but something worse. He could've died so easily in that bed. An unworthy end to his life. His body should've given out, flawed by its own fragility, it's vulnerability. The flesh is weak. Everyone has this weakness. Why does it repulse him?

He turns quickly on his heel. “Oh.”

Who else should be standing in front of him right now, one foot in the room and the other on the threshold with her toes pointed in the direction of the hall ready to make her leave? In all the world, who should it have been?

“Oh.” Claire repeats, looking as awkward and surprised as he felt.

He swallows. “Wasn’t expecting you here.”

Nodding slightly, “and I wasn’t expecting you to be awake.”

“Today’s full of surprises, isn’t it?”

“Seems like it.”

“Is it a good one for you?”

She shrugs awkwardly. “You're not dead so yeah.”

“Then it is a good surprise for the both of us.”

A short, soft laugh escapes then and she smiles slightly despite the awkwardness she feels. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He says, obviously, but then he gestures to himself. “I'm ready to go home.”

“Good. No more wasting away in that bed, huh? Must feel great.”

“I feel better than I have in years.”

She nods, a smile on her face, relief washing through her. The captain was officially, undoubtedly going to be fine now. Her worry was disappearing by the second. Turning on a toe, she means to leave throwing a goodbye over her shoulder but that's too much of a cold and distant farewell to someone who's created an unchangeable impression on the most sensitive parts of her body. Inwardly, she sighs, hating how awkward she feels right now; she hasn't felt this way since high school.

“I'm glad.” She says, managing to sound unbothered.

“How about you? Did you get hurt?” He asks.

“Nothing but scraped hands. I tripped on the way out.” Her shoulders roll in a motion identifiable as a shrug but not quite, and she shows him her palms. They were rubbed a little pink, not quite raw. He steps forward and takes one of them in his own, examining them almost like a doctor. They were so pretty, her hands. They look good settled in his own palm. Small, gentle, contrasting all his roughness and callousness. A woman's hands that could tear the soul right out of a man's body. He runs his thumb over the deepest imperfection.

“Nothing a little moisturizer can't fix.” He says softly.

“Not everything.” The tone shifts slightly, saddened. Her words sounded almost like a confession. “Can I-” a pause. A breath. “Can I see it?”

“Something of a sadist?”

“Not any more than the next person.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. He doesn't let go of her hand as he turns, holding it behind his back as she sees the wound. She'd imagined horrendous injuries, gory nightmares with brain matter and skull fragments. She expected angry red swelling and cringeworthy bits of metal keeping the gash closed. The reality of it though, was simple, somehow plain. There was a four inch line going down diagonally from behind his left ear toward his neck. The stitches were in there tightly, sticking out against the irritated red skin and growing in hair. It wasn't as horrible as she'd thought. By all means, it still looked bad but not irreversible. It would scar definitely but if the hair grew in the way it was before, it would be as if nothing was there.

Tentatively, she raised a finger and gently ghosted the length of it, both scared to aggravate it further and fascinated by how it might feel. The skin was pulled tight, reattaching itself together and healing cell by cell. She lowered her hand, settling it in the space between his shoulders, a knot forming in her throat. A question makes its way around it still. “Does it hurt?”

“Its-” he draws out, turning and bringing her hand to his chest. “-manageable.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

“I just feel bad that you got hurt.”

He smirks. “Was it you that bashed me over the head? With these beautiful hands?”

“You wouldn't be here if I had.”

“Then don't guilt yourself over something that wasn't your fault.”

“Oh jeez, what a concept. It's almost like I wasn't trying to do that the whole time. Thank you for your wise words of wisdom.”

He chuckled. She felt it on his chest. “You're beautiful.” He lets her hand fall, with a bit of difficulty if he were being honest with himself. He liked the way her soft hands felt in his.

“I think I should get going then.”

“Do you have time for lunch?” He walked over to the chair in the corner where he had left his bag.

She dug the toe of her shoe into the linoleum, biting the inside of her cheek. “I guess.”

“Italian?”

“Buena.”

He looked at her. He might have cocked his head if he were younger. “That's Spanish.”

“Si.”

“Romano’s?”

“Can you drive?”

“Yes I can.”

“You have a head injury.” She heads for the door. “Best if I drive.”


	6. The Lost Get Loud

_ Strangers ain't enough _

_ And what about love? _

_ Until you?  _

 

He's seventeen, or maybe now that he thinks about it, sixteen. He's gotten into a fight at school, bloodied knuckles, split lip, torn uniform, the whole bit. The other boys had it the worse but he rarely thinks about them. For the life of him, he can't quite remember the exact cause of it, or who swung first, or what happened to any of the people involved besides himself but he does remember one thing. It was a girl. It almost always is, isn't it? Even for him. 

The first girl, the first love, it's all kind of the same in the end. A girl.  _ The  _ girl at the time and as hormonal as young boys can be at that age, there was no doubt in his mind that he would have done anything for her. A bit dramatic if he were to be more honest with himself but self delusion seemed to be a dominant family trait. He got it from his father who got it from  _ his _ father and so on, but when he returned home that night with a torn lip and a swollen eye, his father had it in for him then. He hit him, once, and that was the night he had decided to hit back. His father fumed, Ozwell had a laugh. 

“There’s not a more dangerous creature,” he spit out, both trying to finish his drink and choking on his own laugh, “than a Wesker boy becoming a man.” 

His father, now with an eye to match that of his son’s, looked at him and looked at him for a long time. He clenched his fist and waited. It seemed like years under his father’s heated gaze and he had readied himself for whatever repercussions he was about to, but nothing happened. Instead, his father poured himself a drink, then poured another, and then refilled Ozwell’s glass. 

Pushing the glass toward him, he watched. They remained at odds for what seemed like hours until he reached for it and drank. It all went down very quickly and the burn that followed was foreign and he struggled to keep from cringing, but his father’s features softened some and he finally looked away.

“She must be something then.” He said, low and even. 

“She is.” He answered. His father smiled slightly or at least, in the dim light of the study, it looked like a smile. Ozwell though, he was looking at him with something else. Something dark in his eyes. Since then, that look had never gone away. Not even when his father died. 

Now he’s thirty two, he feels older, and that first girl is long gone, off in her own life with her own men erasing his first kiss from her lips. She probably doesn't even remember him. Then again, virginity wasn't something one would forget. He would hope. He certainly hasn't as much as he’d like to. It was clumsy, inelegant, and over far too soon. He had been slightly, to be frank, too big for her first time and it didn't harm his ego but it did make him feel guilty with every wince and every gasp she made every time he moved. Not one of his better experiences. It took a couple tries before he could finally get her there and the noise she made as she did was something beautiful. The other women that have come and gone since weren't as memorable as the first. Well, not since-

“You okay?”

He snapped back into reality. She was driving his car, he was hungry, and his head was beginning to throb. They were at a red light, he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and she had her hand on his knee. 

“I'm fine.” 

“You looked far away for a second.” 

“I'm thinking.” He says, unintentionally in a grumble. He took a moment to rub his temple and then cleared his throat. “The weather is-” the right word eluded him. The sun invaded the window and he cringed. “Pleasant.”

Claire smiled just as the light turned green. She took her hand off of his thigh and put it back on the wheel, ten and two. The spot on his leg where her hand was felt strangely cold now. “Small talk?”

“An observation.”

“About the weather?”

“Do change the subject if you have anything better to say.” 

She was quiet. Then she turned at an intersection. “How was your coma?” 

He cracked and chuckled. “Best sleep of my life.” 

Sighing, “some people are just born lucky I guess.” 

“Pardon?”

“You had a vacation where you slept  _ and  _ were paid? I'd sell you my soul for something like that.”

“Well, pull over. I believe I have a tire iron in the trunk.” 

“Maybe later. Tell me where to go. I didn't see the street name.”

“Just turn left at this light.”

The Romano’s Cafe loomed over at a busy crosswalk with a simple red sign. She parks and he has to squint once he steps out into the sunlight. The one day he doesn't wear his sunglasses and his retinas can't take it. They adjust quickly though and he allows her to lead them inside, holding the door open for her and proving to an elderly couple that chivalry is not yet dead. On its way out, oh yes, but not dead. 

They get a small table by the window and she orders tea and a croissant while he gets a coffee he will not touch. The heat rises in faint wisps of smoke as he teases a finger along the rim of the ceramic mug in front of him. She pulls her hair up, rubbing the sweat from the back of her neck before bringing the cup to her lips. Her lips, naked, absent of chalky lipstick, remind him of the limited time his body had been graced by them. He misses them, wants them between his teeth. For now though, he’ll settle for how lovely they look curving around the lip of her teacup.

“You’re staring.” She says, licking her bottom lip.

“A thing of beauty is meant to be looked at.” He replies without thinking about it. “Who am I to deny such a thing?” 

“God, you’re smooth.” She sighs, placing the cup down. 

“I’m being truthful.”

“You’re being flattering.”

“Is it a problem?”

She leans back in her seat, arms folding over her chest. Her eyes burn into him, the corners of her mouth twitched just the slightest at an angle. “Usually when an attractive man is flattering is when he wants to get into my pants.”

“Familiar territory.” He nods. “But it’s not my intention. I was raised to appreciate beautiful things. Paintings, sculptures, women.” And then quietly in an afterthought, “men.”

Her eyebrow raises. “Men?”

He looks away. “A tale for another time I suppose.” 

“You filthy tease.” She grins. “So you were raised posh?”

“Pardon?”

“Art museums. Bentleys. Top shelf scotch. Black turtlenecks.” And when he doesn’t reply, she says, “you’re a rich boy aren’t you? Old money?”

“Oh am I having lunch with a golddigger? Maybe  _ you  _ planted the bomb that almost killed me.” He tries his best to make that sound lighthearted. She gives him an awkward laugh.

“There are better ways to kill a man.”

_ If only she knew…  _ “Yes I suppose so.” 

She sips her tea again and takes a bite from her croissant. He licks his lips. “It just occurred to me that we truly do not know much about each other.” 

Her face remained neutral but she blushed. “I think we've gotten to know each other quite well if I’m being honest.”

“I knew you only liked me for my body.” 

“You assume a lot.”

“Miss Redfield,” he leans in. “Allow me the pleasure of getting to know you.” 

 

* * *

 

William was, for better or for worse, a father. A caring, rather clueless, daddy. He could feel his own father rolling in his grave at the thought of his useless son being responsible for another helpless life. He chuckles at the memory of his father holding Sherry for the first time. His face was as emotionless and as hard as ever, but he saw the twinkle in that old man's eyes as Sherry’s tiny pink hand reached up for his glasses. As faint as it was. He died a month later, not exactly a sad affair in honesty but with the kind of man he was, that was to be expected.

Albert was there. Surprisingly. If his father had been a younger man, and alive, he was pretty sure he would have attempted to kill him. William laughed again. His father, a tall man with a lot of lean, mean meat on his bones, shirtless, white hair carpeting his chest, versus Albert Wesker. Lean, mean, combat trained Wesker. He wasn’t sure who’d come out the victor; his father fought like a boorish bear while Wesker was the lithe, calculating lion. What a sight to see. 

William, though? Was he either of them? With his golden hair he’d be nothing else but a Golden Retriever. Happy, go lucky, lovable. He was thinking about getting one for Sherry. A tiny puppy, runt of the litter maybe, something special for her. Annette shot the idea down quickly. ‘ _ Dogs have teeth and Sherry’s still a baby. I don’t want her getting bit for pulling on a tail or an ear. It’s unnecessary trauma. _ ’

Kid deserves a dog, he thinks. It’s like a right of passage or something. He never had one when he was a kid and maybe that’s why he isn’t quite right in the head. He laughs to himself again. He wanted one for his kid. It was important. Probably not now, she was still working on sitting up and holding her own bottle. Give her a year or two, no matter what Annette says or how much hell she’ll give him, he’ll definitely get her one. For now, he’d have to settle with being the only one in the doghouse. And speaking of dogs-

None other than Albert Wesker. Newly risen from the dead, looking better than ever, standing upright at riverside in Melrose Park on the Eastside, beautiful young woman by his side. He nearly dropped the groceries he was carrying. Wesker didn’t look like Wesker. No immaculate dark clothes, no sunglasses, his hair wasn’t styled in place the way it usually was, but it was him. How could anyone mistake anyone else for Wesker? The girl was new, not exactly Wesker’s usual type, whatever that was. Tall, blonde, busty, and a lover of tight clothes with expensive tastes. Not that he treats them to anything more than a good drink and a godly, sinful railing. He knew him to be a dog like that. But this girl? She wasn't as tall, shorter than him but a lot of people were. Modest in her chest but still blessed. Modest in everything else actually, but still goddamn beautiful. Albert always managed the beautiful ones.

So this is where William finds himself this afternoon. Handful of groceries, explicit orders to get back at home as soon as possible by an exhausted wife, watching his very emotionally constipated (or stunted, probably stunted) best friend being very friendly with a woman he should have no business being friendly with. His phone rings in his pocket and he nearly drops the eggs when he goes for it.

“Yeah?” He asks, absently of course.

“Will, are you on your way home?” Annette.

“Kind of.”

“Can you hurry because Sherry’s been crying and you know she'll only fall asleep with you.”

“Uh-”

The girl leans in to Wesker’s side and he wraps- he  _ wraps _ \- his arms around her. 

“Will?”

“Sorry. I um-” his brain can't process it all. “I'm looking at Albert right now?”

“Al’s with you?” 

“No not  _ with _ me. He’s with a girl.”

“A girl?” 

“A female human.” 

She sighs over the phone and he can picture her, clear as day, pinching the bridge of her nose in that way that she does when he's being difficult. “First thing he can think of is getting laid, I don't believe this-” 

“No, hon. I don't think that's what's happening. They look awfully comfortable with each other.” 

“Comfortable how?” 

“Well.” He tries to think of how to phrase it. “The last time I've seen him like this was with Lydia.” 

The sigh that rolled out of her mouth and into his ear over a wireless connection could have made the dead uncomfortable. “I thought we agreed never to repeat that name out loud.” 

“I thought he promised not to have another Lydia situation but look at us now.” 

A pause. “Send me a picture.”

 

* * *

 

Two teenagers shared a cigarette while staring out at the setting sun, painted in reds and yellows, bathed in the last call of sunlight. At length, he wonders who they are and what they must mean to each other. Everything? Nothing? Must be something. No one looks at someone with that much affection and not feel a thing. As an outside observer who always saw to these things through a lens stranger and more alien to those around him, how could he possibly understand what that look could mean? Picture it: her gaze a thousand miles away over the water, the faint hints of a smile on her lips. Her skin glowing under the fading light. He's there at her shoulder, distracted  and then like a light switching on, enamored by the girl in his presence. Something happens then, in his eyes when he pauses to look at her, studying her, in awe of her. 

How could he possibly experience that look again? But then he turns to Claire, smiling at a little girl who had run past her, and feels something. It's familiar, it makes his chest ache and he resents it. He resents feeling it again, after everything, and he resents that it's with someone he barely knows. He pushes the feeling away, ignores it and looks ahead of him.  _ Just don't look _ , but a minute later he's committing her features to memory and pulling her close. Ignoring the voice in his head that was screaming for him to stop. Even an animal knows how to avoid that which has harmed him. But he was human, wasn't he? Despite all the things he's done, how detached from humanity he pushed himself to be. He was still human. Nothing reminded him of that more than Claire at the moment and it worried him. This girl could destroy him. And for better or for worse, he knew at some point, he'd let her.

 

* * *

 

At some point they manage to get back to his, stumbling through the door because he decides the front steps are the perfect place to kiss her. He pins her there against the door frame, the door swinging slowly open into an ominous dark house. A cool night breeze surrounded them, sifting through her long auburn hair and climbing up into his shirt. She touched his neck, which for a moment made him tense at the aching memory of pain and misfortune that cut open the back of his skull, but her other hand pressed into his chest and moved down to his side and then up again tenderly enough to soothe his hidden discomfort. Without realizing it, his body had gotten awfully close to hers to the point where he could feel her heartbeat through their clothes and on his chest. The beat was so strong, like thunder trapped within her breast just waiting to break through her ribs to be set free. He placed his hand there on the center of her chest, right there between her breasts and just felt her.  _ Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum _ . Music. 

“Are we-” she breathes, “going in or what?”

 

For a man, Wesker’s home was immaculate and beautiful. For a person, it was quite plain, in honesty. She didn't know what to expect from a man like him but she didn't imagine it to be… quaint. Perfect hardwood floors that shone when the light was switched on. The walls were white and bare, absent of framed pictures of family or friends. The living room was a home to a black leather couch, its siblings an armchair and a chaise lounge. Glass coffee table sitting on a white rug. A pretty average sized TV mounted on the far wall just waiting to be turned on. Books line the wall next to it, and she wants to tour the wall to ceiling spines and hardcovers, leather bound books she’d leave alone in favor of the glossy new soft covers she can see on the top shelf. 

“I’m not one for tours.” He says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “Feel free to get comfortable.” He gestures to the couch.

“Do you mind if I turn on the TV?” She asks, pulling her hair up.

“Go ahead. I need to take a shower. The hospital smell has stuck with me.”

She nods, already making her way to the couch. He watches her, thinking at length how strange it is to see another woman in his living room. Most go straight to his bedroom, bypassing the couch, the tv, the books altogether. It seemed most women were interested in his mattress and his bedsheets more than anything else, or maybe that is what he's led himself to be. A whore is as a whore does. 

He takes his time in the shower, relishing in the heat unwinding the tension in his aching shoulders. The water slicked back his hair and the stinging of the wound on the back of his head didn't feel as bad. In the mirror when he gets out, the bruises on his body had all but faded. Scattered splotches of yellow and purple littered his body where debris had hit him, on the places his body had landed, accompanied by already closing if not healed scratches and slashes. His body evidence of the vulnerability of man. He gets dressed in a tank top and sweats. 

Claire is still there on the couch when he comes back into the living room. Part of him thought she wouldn’t be. But she's still there, falling asleep with her head on the arm of the couch. The news plays softly on his TV and he wonders for a moment how good the quality is and how he should at least use it every once and a while to get what he paid for.

“That was fast.” She mutters drowsily as he sits down. Her feet were up, sans shoes and socks, revealing blue nail polish that accentuated each of her toes. Funny, he never would have thought. Usually, he would have pushed her feet off of his genuine leather cushions but he took her by the ankles and placed her legs over his lap to keep her comfortable. “Dylan takes about an hour.”

“Not all of us have the pleasure.” He sighs and leans his head back against the couch. “You could take one if you'd like. I have clothes to spare.” 

“I think I'll pass.” She answers.

“Unfortunate. You would've looked adorable in my old RPD training shirt.” And in an afterthought, he added, “or wearing nothing at all.”

“Smooth.” She turned her attention back to the TV. They were playing some filler for a Christian youths basketball team that was hosting a fundraiser for kids in foster care waiting to be adopted. It was supposedly to raise money so the kids could get new clothes and new toys so that life was maybe worth living. Then the reporter signed off with a perfected fabricated smile and it was back to the studio with Roger Banks and Sylvia Hossman who segued into the next story. 

“We have a bit of good news tonight.” She said, in her anchor voice. “The police captain injured in last week’s explosion that occurred in the Raccoon City Police Department, is now out of the hospital. He suffered a head injury when a piece of debris fell on him as he went back into the building to rescue any remaining occupants. He was given a clean bill of health and sent home.”

And then Roger adds, “He’s being hailed as a hero for risking his life. He’s an example of how brave our emergency services truly are.”

What Claire doesn’t see, with her eyes glued to the screen, is the tension in his jaw. The stiffening of his shoulders. He sighs quietly and shuts his eyes, sleep creeping in on him. A foreign exhaustion takes over him then and he would have fell asleep right then and there had the girl next to him not crept closer and pressed into his side. 

“Look, you're a hero.” She yawns. 

He grunts. “If that's what they call doing your job.” He seemed annoyed at the whole thing, even going for the remote and changing the channel.  _ Aliens _ was on and by a stroke of luck he's actually seen this one before, then he reaches over her to turn the lamp on the end table off. There's comfort in the domesticity. How she's curled into him, how he's wrapped around her, how the TV plays almost in vain as they just half watch idly, falling into a sleep that hadn't been so strong just an hour ago. The warmth of her on his cool skin, the softness of her under his rough palms. He'd never admit how much he'd miss this. 

“Still a hero.” She mumbles before becoming quiet. He thought she fell asleep before she moved and sat up, looking at him. “Can I get your opinion on something?” 

“Depends.”

“Well have I ever told you what I do for work?”

“I don't think I've had the pleasure.”

“None of the sass.” She pointed, he relented. “I work for the news. Taking pictures and stuff.”

“Daily or Inquirer?”

“Inquirer.”

“Interesting.” 

“Anyway, my boss has been bugging me about getting an interview with you ever since, you know.”

“I knew there was a reason you wanted me.” He straightened a bit. “Just to get ahead in your job.”

“Oh don't you dare-” she says defensively as he pulls her into his lap. He shuts her up with a quick one right there on her lips, just to feel her for a second. 

“I'll think about it.” He says then. 

“Thank you.” 

“On conditions that-”

“Oh you're being difficult-”

“On conditions that you're the one doing the interview and the  _ only  _ one. It has to be in my office, it can’t take no more than an hour and most importantly, you have to be sure that I look amazing. Not that it’s very hard.” 

An eyebrow raises and an incredulous look crosses her face. “Arrogance isn’t a very appealing trait.”

“You’re still here aren’t you?” 

She leaned in, hands on his neck and whispered with her lips close to his, “only for the moment.”

“Oh?” He kisses her. He couldn’t get enough of kissing her. This time she moaned softly into his mouth and he gripped her hips firmly. 

“What are you going to do?” She says then, breaking it off to breathe.

“What do you mean?” He plays with the bottom of her shirt, teasing it up and trailing his fingers along the skin underneath. 

“At work? Didn’t your office get blown up?” 

“Oh right.” He forgot about that little detail. “To be fair, a lot of the station was blown up.” 

“Which means you’re out of work for a while.” 

“It seems so.” 

“What are you going to do?” She asks again. 

He shrugs. “I have a few things to keep my interests.” A hand moves to her lower back where he rubs lazily the skin with his thumb. A moment later he adds, “besides, we'll probably relocate the alpha team into the old school near the railroad.”

“That's far out.” 

“It's a reasonable substitute.” 

“I heard that place was haunted.”

“I'm not afraid of a few prepubescent ghosts. Are you?”

“What if that’s not what’s to be scared of?”

Quiet. He sighs. “You've not seen me on a bad day.”

 

* * *

 

 

That night, he learns quite a lot about her. 

First, she’s about five feet and seven inches against his six feet even. She’s about to his shoulder, enough so that he could kiss the top of her head with ease when she isn’t looking. He likes them shorter, can’t understand why, but then again not a lot of women could tower over him and heels didn’t count. Anyway, he likes the difference because standing side by side, she tends to lean into him and the contact is rather nice.

Second, she’s picky about her beer but not with her liquor. She doesn’t like anything on tap, in a can, and can do with certain bottles but she’d about take a shot of anything. She can take it too, not a lightweight with the hard stuff and it makes him grin like the devil the way she downs a glass of whiskey without cringing. And then another, and then one more. He barely keeps up, that last one originally being his. 

Third, and he didn’t doubt it before but tonight really drove it home for him that she’s quite smart. A genius compared to the other Redfield and more genuine than the other women he’s been with. When talking, after the first shot, she’s telling him about how she skipped a grade or two in high school, got into a halfway decent college early on a scholarship. Her first major was zoology, minored in photography. In her second year, though, she switched the two and majored in photography and minored in zoology. What a combination. He respected that and showed interest in her portfolio when she mentioned it. She’s got a good eye, he could tell. 

Fourth, this one spills out accidentally. A slip of the tongue type thing where she doesn’t really realize what she’s said at first until it becomes obvious on his face. She pauses suddenly, cutting off her own sentence as a pensive look replaces the once easy expression. Her fingers touched her lips and she looked away, her eyes never settling on anything. Under her breath, she muttered an apology. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“Don’t be.” He tried to reassure her. Of course, he was never really good at that. 

“It’s just people get weird when I talk about it. Either they get uncomfortable or the pity party starts-” she waves her hand, trailing off. “Anyway, I don’t talk about it like this.”

“Try me. I won’t pity you.” 

“It’s not easy for me.” She mutters and he reaches out for her arm, trying to give a little tenderness in his touch. 

“That’s alright.” 

“Can I use your bathroom?” She says then, moving away, not quite brushing him off. He points her to the hall where the bathroom is and once she’s gone he pours himself another glass and wonders how a simple slip up could ruin an entire mood. 

_ Before my mother died… _

He can't even remember the day he last spoke to his own mother before she passed and their relationship wasn't even the gold standard so he can't imagine how Claire had gotten through it as well. Maybe the cut of the cloth wasn’t so different between them after all.

She came out moments later, face looking fresh as if she had splashed it with water, her hair combed through and pulled back, and the easy going look on her face was back as if nothing had ever happened. She took another shot and he did too. She mumbled something about having to work in the morning. It was only about nine o’clock. He didn’t want her to leave just yet so he takes her by the waist, pulling her in close to his body, and kisses her. One of those long, slow kisses reserved for those quiet and tender moments he’s had maybe twice in his lifetime. She follows slowly, her lips soft and her tongue not really there, but then after a few moments, tracing his bottom lip. There was a bite here and there from him then her and he could feel himself becoming hotter. Could feel her getting there as her movements became quicker and her mouth traveled down his jaw to his neck. Biting and kissing, kissing and biting. He turned her, so her back was pressed against the counter, and lifted her onto it. Immediately, her legs wrapped around his hips and he pressed himself against her. A moan escaped as she felt him.

There’s no doubt he could have taken her right there on his kitchen counter next to a bottle of Jack Daniels, would have, but he wanted her in his bed so he carried her to his room. He turned and sat, putting her on his lap, barely breaking the kiss. Another thing learned, five, she prefers to be on top and he loved it. Laying back, she straddled him, holding his face in her hands, grinding onto him. If he wasn’t turned on before, he is now, and she knows that. Why else would she be moving like that and kissing him so hungrily?

He learns how she likes to be touched between her thighs, to be kissed down her chest between her breasts. How she likes the skin between her knees, the soft milky skin, to be nipped before he puts his tongue to use. That it’s not enough to suck on her breast but that he has to flick his tongue over the nipple, pinching the other simultaneously. 

How she can be shy when he takes her clothes off, how her body turns slightly so that her legs are pressed together and her arms come in close. How all it takes is a pair of curious hands on her curves and gentler kisses along her neck and her collarbone to open her up. How it has to be put in slowly at first until she gets used to him and then she enjoys it fast and deep. She’ll scratch up his back. She’ll ride him like like a cowgirl on a galloping horse. She’ll make him come harder than he’s ever had, his breath going out in a gasp against her neck. The sound she makes when she finishes does that to him. 

He learns how beautiful she looks, flushed and sweaty, her hair in a mess of tangles around her face sitting above him. How heavy lidded her eyes can gaze down at him as she struggles to even out her breathing, her chest heaving in and out. He learns how beautiful she looks, wild and pure, fierce and natural. 

He learns how she can make the rest of the world melt and then fade away. How she can make it so that they are the only two left on the planet. How she can make him feel-

 

-Alive. 

 

_ I like the way she feels, _

_ Her chemicals.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The Lost Get Loud, Elektrik People


	7. Red Mosquito

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of an experimental chapter, I don't know.

_Watched from the window, with a red mosquito_  
_I was not allowed to leave the room_

_I saw the sun go down, and now it's coming up  
Somewhere in the time between_

 

_Stagnation_.

He was stagnating. Defined in an old dictionary sitting on the window sill as ‘ _the state of not flowing or moving_ ’ or, relatably, ‘ _lack of activity, growth, or development_ ’. Stationary. Immobile. Frozen. Rotting. They were all stagnating, rotting away in this god forsaken place. A goddamn no-tell motel of all places.

He didn’t like the Glen Cherie. It was closed off, suspicious, looking like it was falling apart on the exterior. He hated it even more when it wasn’t as half a bad place to live. The rooms were clean- _ish_ and there were plenty of them. The beds were nice, big and comfortable with surprisingly clean sheets. They had a well purely for drinking water and a river not so far away that they cleaned the linens with just in case, a whole laundry room full of detergent did the trick. It wasn’t a _bad_ place to live in during the end of the world. It just wasn’t a place for a man like Chris to live. Old man Chris. He wasn’t that old, not much older than Leon with his long hair and his boyish features. The years and trauma and loss had aged him, turning his hair grayer than it should have been. His blue eyes turned darker than the night sky over this little haven. His body showed the worst of it.

To those who had the misfortune of seeing him without his clothes on would know the scars that littered his body. The white, fleshy reminders of slashes and gashes and a pain he had learned to hide well within himself. The ridiculous amount of muscle he had gained had loosened and atrophied, a result of this stagnation. Hell, he was losing weight all around. He looked himself over in the dirty bathroom mirror. There were faint hints of starvation if one were to look carefully. There were very slight points on his hips, the jut of his pelvis that fractured a while ago. Collarbones revealed themselves and ribs looked like pinpricks going down his sides. God, he was a mess. His hair was too long, his beard too rough. For once he hoped Heaven wasn’t real, and that his mother couldn’t see how he looked right now. Her only son…

It was bad enough he had to be seen by Claire in this state. An old, neglected dog that was just a poor, half-assed rendition of the brother she used to know and love such a long time ago. No better than an infected with a better complexion. Claire…

God had blessed her. All this and she only got stronger, braver, a force of fucking nature. Of course she was. He would be proud, some part of him is deep down. A leader, a fighter, a beacon of hope for the people that followed her. A mother…

He didn’t hate the kid. It was just hard sometimes to see his face and see so much of her and so much of _him._ It was like looking at a ghost walking and talking and breathing. Getting stronger, smarter, and wiser everyday. _Just like him._ No one else could see the danger the kid could potentially be, the toxic blood running in his veins. Enough of that, he tells himself.

Back to rotting away. He’s taking up room 101, on the west side away from everyone else. There was a hole in the ceiling going up to the room above that no one wanted, of course. That kid, Brandon, likes to come over and bother the hell out of him. Not a bad looking kid. Fuckable, then again anyone truly is and there weren’t many options. A lot of people think they’re already fucking. It’s just the kind of rumor that spreads when two people are around each other all the time. Now he’s never fucked a guy before, but he has thought about it. Flirted with one a time or two, drunkenly made out with one at a party in a closet of all places, but never actually had sex with a guy. He’s had plenty of female partners, Jill being the last. God, she was the last everything. Last kiss, last love, last loss. His Jill…

_Stop. Don’t do that._

Back to Brandon. He couldn’t give a shit what his sexual preferences were, no one else did. Then again, no one really cared for him anyway. Maybe Brandon did, he didn’t know. He hoped he did. Just one person in the whole wide world. He had this mop of messy black hair on his head, a defined jawline and cheekbones, pale skin with a constellation of sable birthmarks down his neck. Lips that were pink and plump and ready to be sucked on. Vaguely, he wondered how they’d look around his cock. How he’d run his hands through his hair, pushing and pulling, watching those lips take him in and out. Wondered how good it could feel. Even just thinking about it made him twitch in his cargo pants. He laid back in his bed, setting the book he was idly thumbing through aside. Staring up into the big hole in the ceiling, he thought about Brandon’s lips, those swollen lips on different parts of his body. Wondering if those birthmarks extended lower and lower and if the hair was as dark down there and if it trailed from navel to groin. He twitched again and slipped his hand down the front of his pants. He sighed, felt the little semi that was already going on and started to stroke.

He hadn’t jerked off in a very long time. Never felt the urge, never had the time. Another thing he hated about the Glen Cherie was that there nothing there to satiate the boredom. The kids had their games and their little soccer matches. The adults were always maintaining, sustaining, and planning ahead. Scout runs, ration management, laundry, scavenging, food preparation, security detail. Claire didn’t let him do any of those things because the trust was gone. So what was he left to do?

He did that for a few minutes, picturing the dirtiest things he could imagine with Brandon the subject, Dylan at points, Sheva, but then Jill. The sight of her in his mind’s eye. Soft and strong at the same time, sprawled in front of him beautifully. He can’t quite remember the sounds she used to make, the looks she used to give him. In a way, he’s thankful. The memory of her hurts more than it feels good and soon enough, he’s trying to revive his soft cock. He curses loudly and throws his head back against the pillow.

Really, he shouldn’t be mad. When was the last time he’s ever had a full erection? Never mind being able to finish himself off. He leans forward a bit and pulls himself free from his pants. He takes a good long look at it in the gaslight. It looked alright, normal. He tugged on it a few times, rubbing his thumb over the head, trying to get at least semi-erect again to no avail.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He mutters to himself, shoving it back into his pants and doing up the button. Sitting up, he rubs the back of his neck. Can’t even do that in the apocalypse. _Stagnation_.

_Fine._ He stands, reaching for the jacket he left on the armchair and pulling it on. The hunting knife sitting on the little table next to it goes into his belt. Claire doesn’t allow him a gun anymore after the little episode a few months ago. A knife has to do now. He leaves the room, not bothering to lock it. Why should he? Who cares?

Tonight, the air is cool and the moon is full, lighting up the darkness just the slightest bit. It must be late, the nightly fire the colony has near the empty pool was already burned out and no one was outside. Brandon would probably be awake. His room was toward the middle of the three building triangle that made up the Glen Cherie, the middle of building B. He was at building C and the way the compound was set up, the easier way to get to B was to go past A, since the pool was more between B and C. Claire lived in A, ground floor. He’d have to pass her room to get there. He zipped up his jacket and went on his way.

It takes him a couple minutes to reach building A, he tends to walk faster than needed, and he reaches Claire’s room without even realizing it. Everyone keeps the curtains closed, Claire is no different. He pauses there in front of her door, looking at the fractured wood and the fading paint. It’s funny how a few years ago there’d be absolutely no problem with him knocking on her door to spend some time with her. No anxiety, no regret, no shame in it. He takes a step forward, not even voluntarily, and raises his fist to the wood. At this point, his whole body freezes. Sweat starts to drip down the back of his neck and a knot twists up his stomach. He must have stood there for hours.

It shouldn’t be this hard. Not between them. Not like this. He could feel her presence behind the door, could feel her living and breathing but he remains. Untouchable.

_Pathetic._

He grits his teeth and puts his fist down to his side, tightening his fingers and releasing. The tension leaves his body in a sigh once he starts walking again, building B in his sights.

Brandon opens the door after he’s knocked four or five times, standing outside his door like the world’s worst serial killer. When he finally opens it, his hair is sticking out in all directions and he looks like he’s been roughed up.

“What do you want, old man?” He yawns, scratching his head. He doesn’t have much clothes on, just jeans that hang off his hips a bit.

“Companionship, bitch.” Chris retorts, gesturing to the inside. Brandon moves to the side to allow him in.

“At this time of night? No way.” It kind of sounds like sarcasm but his voice is too soft and too raspy to be sure. His room looks like his except cleaner and more organized, books of all kinds lining the walls. One without a cover sits on the bed and he picks it up before throwing himself down.

“Little late night reading?” He asks, flipping through the pages.

“You’re gonna make me lose my place.” He sighs, reaching over and plucking it from his fingers.

“What is it anyway?” Chris asks, rolling over onto his stomach, taking a pillow beneath him, hugging it to his chest.

Brandon stands at the foot of the bed, turning the book over and over in his hand. “Something about a king that goes crazy. Ends up slaughtering half his kingdom in order to preserve the other half's superiority. And he leaves his wife with a baby that’s cursed by a witch he had killed.”

Chris felt his brow furrow. _God, that sounded familiar…_

“It’s a bit terrible.” Brandon admits. “The king’s a jackass but not a believable character. I mean he goes on and on about how much he loves his wife and their kid but he’s ready to sacrifice her in order to gain god status. It’s fucking nuts.”

“You don’t say.” He mutters to himself.

_That sounds a lot like-_

_You shut the fuck up._

“It’s not unlike real life.” He says.

Brandon sighs, rubbing his eyes. “This again?”

“What do you mean ‘this again’?” He pushes himself up. “That’s exactly what happened. The bastard that fucked the world over-”

“It’s late.” Brandon interrupts. “I’m tired. And I’m hungry. And I’m not really in the mood to deal with your crazy shit right now.”

He pauses, looking at him. “I’m gonna fucking hit you.”

“Kiss my ass.” He says simply. Chris watches him move to the other bed in the room. Watching his skinny body move was pitiful. He laid down and closed his eyes.

Chris sat there for a moment, looking at his bony half naked body. _He should really eat._

“You hungry?”

A few years ago, he’d think leaving camp in the dead of night with nothing but a flashlight and a hunting knife would be a terrible idea. Now, he can’t give two shits. Brandon’s with him, they’ve stolen a family sized bag of chips from the pantry, and they’re off to the river. He doesn’t know why but he knows it was his idea. It’s a nice night for it. Plus, it beats the hell out of just sitting in his room wanting to sleep but not being able to. Wanting to jerk off but not being able to. Wanting to shut the voice in his head up but not being able to. The river could provide at least some sort of semblance of peace.

The sun was coming up, painting the sky a cotton blue, allowing them to see just the slightest bit better. They stayed at the river for a while but at some point, they moved down river. That’s when he first saw _them_.

 

_I was bitten, must have been the devil_   
_He was just paying me..._   
_A little visit, reminding me of his presence_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Red Mosquito, Pearl Jam


End file.
